‘Yet he directed me hither, my good friend,’ said Alan. ‘Is there another of your name in this town of Annan?’
‘None,’ replied Mr. Trumbull, ‘since my worthy father was removed; he was indeed a shining light.—I wish you good even, sir.’
‘Stay one single instant,’ said Fairford; ‘this is a matter of life and death.’
‘Not more than the casting the burden of our sins where they should be laid,’ said Thomas Trumbull, about to shut the door in the inquirer’s face.
‘Do you know,’ said Alan Fairford, ‘the Laird of Redgauntlet?’
‘Now Heaven defend me from treason and rebellion!’ exclaimed Trumbull. ‘Young gentleman, you are importunate. I live here among my own people, and do not consort with Jacobites and mass-mongers.’
He seemed about to shut the door, but did NOT shut it, a circumstance which did not escape Alan’s notice.
‘Mr. Redgauntlet is sometimes,’ he said, ‘called Herries of Birrenswork; perhaps you may know him under that name.’
‘Friend, you are uncivil,’ answered Mr. Trumbull; ‘honest men have enough to do to keep one name undefiled. I ken nothing about those who have two. Good even to you, friend.’
He was now about to slam the door in his visitor’s face without further ceremony, when Alan, who had observed symptoms that the name of Redgauntlet did not seem altogether so indifferent to him as he pretended, arrested his purpose by saying, in a low voice, ‘At least you can tell me what age the moon is?’