“Got the wrinkle from my cousin's, Lord De Tomkyns's, land agent. He's cleared all the Methodists off their estate.
“'The fewer the dissenters the better,' he said to me, 'when you come to an election, d' you know.'”
“Are you mad, and worse than mad? Who gave you authority to interfere with any man's religion? You know neither the thing you are doing, nor the men with whom you have to do. Our farmers, thank God, are not ignorant serfs who know nothing and cannot call their souls their own, but men who have learned to think for themselves, and fear no one save Almighty God.”
The factor could hardly find his voice for amazement.
“But, I say, aren't you the Established Kirk minister and a Tory? This seems to me rather strange talk, don't you know.”
“Perhaps it does,” replied the doctor, “but there is nothing a man feels deeper than the disgrace of his own side.”
“Well,” said Tomkyns, stung by the word disgrace, “there are lots of things I could have done for you, but if this is your line it may not be quite so pleasant for yourself in Drumtochty, let me tell you.”
The doctor was never a diplomatic advocate, and now he allowed himself full liberty.
“You make Drumtochty pleasant or unpleasant for me!” with a withering glance at the factor. “There is one man in this parish neither you nor your master nor the Queen herself, God bless her, can touch, and that is the minister of the Established Church.
“I was here before you were born, and I 'll be here when you have been dismissed from your office. There is just one favour I beg of you, and I hope you will grant it”—the doctor was now thundering—“it is that you never dare to speak to me the few times you may yet come to the parish of Drumtochty.”