“Well, Monsieur Dick; I’ll thank you for a mouthful.”
“Will you take it neat, or mixed wi’ a drop o’ water?”
“Neat—raw. The night’s that, and the two raws will neutralise one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm.”
“It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein’ out—exposin’ yourself in such weather!”
“All weathers are alike to me—when duty calls. Just now I’m abroad on a little matter of business that won’t brook delay.”
“Business—wi’ me?”
“With you, mon bracconier!”
“What may it be, your Reverence?”
“Sit down, and I shall tell you. It’s too important to be discussed standing.”
The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand.