"I really cannot say I have," said Mr. Blake, moving towards the door. "I'm a fish out of its accustomed waters, even in its old hunting-ground, if you will excuse mixed metaphors. Good-evening to you both; I'm glad to have met with you."
"Good-evening to you," cried the men.
The Canadian was gone, but the two old cronies sat smoking; and the twilight, that great gleaner of the past, crept about them, bringing tender memories that mistrusted the garish day. In the very midst of them, Gavin said:
"What did the cratur mean when he spoke aboot 'mixed metaphors'? I never heard tell o' them before."
"I'm not very sure," answered Andrew, cautiously; "he must have meant something."
"'Mixed metaphors,'" mused Gavin, "an' the body wadna tak onythin'; it'll be somethin' they tak in Ameriky—I'll ask Ronnie."
Now Ronnie was the bartender!
