“Wouldn’t come if you did,” said Macey, with a merry laugh on his handsome face. “Old Distie would never forgive us if we came home with you now.”
“No,” said Gilmore; “he’d keep us awake half the night preaching at you. Oh! here’s old Syme.”
“Ah, gentlemen, good-morning,” said a plump, florid clergyman with glittering glasses. “That’s right, walk before breakfast. Good for stamina. Must be breakfast time though. What have you got there, Lee?”
“Fungi, sir.”
“Hum! ha!” said the rector bending over the basket. “Which? Fungi, soft as you pronounce it, or Fungi—Funghi, hard, eh?”
“Uncle says soft, sir,” said Vane.
“Hum—ha—yes,” said the rector, poking at one of the vegetable growths with the forefinger of his gloved hand. “He ought to know. But, vulgo, toadstools. You’re not going to eat those, are you?”
“Yes, sir. Will you try a few?”
“Eh? Try a few, Lee? Thanks, no. Too much respect for my gastric region. And look here; hadn’t you better try experiments on Jamby’s donkey? It’s very old.”
“Wouldn’t be any good, sir. Nothing would hurt him,” said Vane, laughing.