“Just plain Dylks? Mr. Dylks wouldn't do; or Brother Dylks, wouldn't. Father Dylks don't sound quite the thing—”
“Might try Uncle Dylks,” Braile said, cackling round his pipe-stem, and now Sally perceived that it was in vain to attempt serious discussion of the point with him.
She said, “Oh, pshaw, Squire Braile,” and lankly let herself down sidewise from the porch, and flopped away on the road. Then she stopped, and called back, “Say, Squire, what do you think of the Good Old Man?”
“What good old man?”
“Why, Dylks. For a name. That's what most of 'em wants to call him.”
“Sounds like a good name for them that like a name like it.”
“He calls us the Little Flock.”
“Well, well! Geese or sheep?”
“Oh, pshaw, now! I wouldn't belong to the Herd of the Lost, anyway. That's what he calls the unbelievers.”
“You don't tell me! Well, now I will be scared in the dark.”