“Doctor Davidson, Established Church clergyman of Drumtochty? quite a pleasure to see you; one of our farmers, I think; seen you before, eh? Drum, Drum—can't quite manage your heathenish names yet, d' ye know.
“Splendid grouse moor you 've got up here, and only one poacher in the whole district, the keepers tell me. D' you take a gun yourself, Doctor—ah—Donaldson, or does the kirk not allow that kind of thing?” and the factor's laugh had a fine flavour of contempt for a Scotch country minister.
“My name is Davidson, at your service, Mr. Tomkyns, and I've shot with Lord Kilspindie when we were both young fellows in the 'forties, from Monday to Friday, eight hours a day, and our bag for the week was the largest that has ever been made in Perthshire.
“But I came here on a matter of business, and, if you have no objection, I would like to ask a simple question.”
“Delighted, I'm sure, to tell you anything you wish,” said the factor, considerably sobered.
“Well a very unpleasant rumour is spreading through the parish that you have refused to renew a farmer's lease unless he promised to leave the Free Church?”
“An old fellow, standing very straight, with white hair, called—let me see, Baxter; yes, that's it, Baxter; is that the man?”
“Yes, that is the name,” said the doctor, with growing severity; “John Baxter of Bumbrae, the best man in the parish of Drumtochty; and I want an answer to my question.”
“You will get it,” and Tomkyns fixed his eye-glass with an aggressive air. “I certainly told Baxter that if he wanted to stay on the estate he must give up his dissenting nonsense and go to the kirk.”
“May I ask your reason for this extraordinary condition?” and Drumsheugh could see that the Doctor was getting dangerous.