“Aweel, gentlemen,” cried the squire, “gin ye’ll no come the noo, we’ll just expect to see ye before the Sawbath.  The Church and the Kirk’ll be looking for the wayfarers, and my house, thank Providence, is big eneuch to gie ye a kindly welcome.”

The parsons ably seconded Mr. Carruthers’ peculiar mixture of English and Lowland Scotch, on the latter of which he prided himself, but only when in the company of someone who could appreciate it.  Wilkinson looked at Coristine, and the lawyer looked at the dominie, for here they were invited to go straight into the jaws of the lion.  Just then, they descried, climbing painfully up the hill, but some distance behind them, the Grinstun man; there was no mistaking him.  “Hurry, and drive away,” cried Coristine, in an under tone; “that cad there, the same that stole Muggins, is going to your house, Squire.  For any sake, don’t facilitate his journey.”

“I’ll no stir a hoof till ye promise to come to us, Mr. Coristine, and you, Mr. Wilkins, tae.”

“All right, many thanks, we promise,” they cried together, and the waggon rattled away.

“Now, Wilks, over this ditch, sharp, and into the brush, till this thief of the world goes by.  We’ve deprived him of a ride, and that’s one good thing done.”

Together they jumped the ditch, and squatted among the bushes, waiting for the Grinstun man.  They heard him puffing up the rising ground, saw his red, perspiring face in full view, and heard him, as he mopped himself with a bandanna, exclaim:  “Blowed if I haint bin and lost the chance of a lift.  Teetotally blawst that hold hass of a driver, and them two soft-’eaded Tomfools of hamateur scientists ridin’ beside ’im.  I knew it was Muggins, the cur I stole, and guv a present of to that there guy of a Favosites Wilkinsonia.  I don’t trust ’im, the scaly beggar, for hall ’is fine ’eroic speeches.  ‘E’ll be goin’ and splittin’ on me to that gal, sure as heggs.  And that Currystone, six feet of ’ipocrisy and hinsolence, drat the long-legged, ’airy brute.  O crikey, but it’s ’ot; ’owever, I must ’urry on, for grinstuns is grinstuns, and a gal, with a rich hold huncle, ridin’ a fine ’orse, with a nigger behind ‘im carryin’ his portmantle, haint to be sneezed hat.  Stre’ch your pegs, Mr. Rawdon, workin’ geologist hand minerologist!”

“By Jove!” cried Coristine, when the Grinstun man was out of sight; “that cad has met the colonel, and has been talking to him.”

“A fine nephew-in-law he will get in him!” growled Wilkinson; “I have half a mind—­excuse me Corry.”

“I thought you were very much taken with the old Southerner.”

“Yes, that is it,” and the dominie relapsed into silence.

“It’s about lunch time, Wilks, and, as there’s sure to be no water on the top of the hill, I’ll fill my rubber bag at the spring down there, and carry it up, so that we can enjoy the view while taking our prandial.”