“Helloa, Deemster!” he cried. “You look as sober as an old crow. Sober! Old Crow! Ha, ha!”
He was a facetious person of high descent in the island.
“Crow never goes home without getting off the box once or twice to pick up the moonlight on the road—do you, Crow?”
“That'll do, parson, that'll do!” roared Crow. And then his reverence leaned across the driver and directed the shaft of his wit at Philip.
“And how's the young housekeeper, Deemster?”
Philip shuddered visibly, and made some inarticulate reply—
“Good-looking young woman, they're telling me. Jem-y-Lord's got taste, seemingly. But take care, your Honour; take care! 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his ox, nor his ass'——”
Philip laughed noisily. The miserable man was writhing in his seat.
“Take an old fiddler's advice, Deemster—have nothing to do with the women. When they're young they're kittens to play with you, but when they're old they're cats to scratch you.”
Pete twisted his body until the whole breadth of his back blocked the parson from Philip's face.