“You’re to play, doctor?” some cried, running to the dog-cart.  “We hae missed you sair.”

“Jeames, I—­I—.  No, I daurna.”

“Then we get our licks.  I never saw the minister in sic form.  We can do nothing against him.”

“Then,” cried McQueen, “I’ll play.  Come what will, I’ll play.  Let go my tails, Mr. Dishart, or I’ll cut them off.  Duty?  Fiddlesticks!”

“Shame on you, sir,” said Gavin; “yes, and on you others who would entice him from his duty.”

“Shame!” the doctor cried.  “Look at Mr. Duthie.  Is he ashamed?  And yet that man has been reproving me for a twelvemonths because I’ve refused to become one of his elders.  Duthie,” he shouted,” think shame of yourself for curling this day.”

Mr. Duthie had carefully turned his back to the trap, for Gavin’s presence in it annoyed him.  We seldom care to be reminded of our duty by seeing another do it.  Now, however, he advanced to the dog-cart, taking the far side of Gavin.

“Put on your coat, Mr. Duthie,” said the doctor, “and come with me to Nanny Webster’s.  You promised.”

Mr. Duthie looked quizzically at Gavin, and then at the sky.

“The thaw may come at any moment,” he said.

“I think the frost is to hold,” said Gavin.

“It may hold over to-morrow,” Mr. Duthie admitted; “but to-morrow’s the Sabbath, and so a lost day.”

“A what?” exclaimed Gavin, horrified.

“I only mean,” Mr. Duthie answered, colouring, “that we can’t curl on the Lord’s day.  As for what it may be like on Monday, no one can say.  No, doctor, I won’t risk it.  We’re in the middle of a game, man.”

Gavin looked very grave.

“I see what you are thinking, Mr. Dishart,” the old minister said doggedly; “but then, you don’t curl.  You are very wise.  I have forbidden my sons to curl.”

“Then you openly snap your fingers at your duty, Mr. Duthie?” said the doctor, loftily. ("You can let go my tails now, Mr. Dishart, for the madness has passed.”)

“None of your virtuous airs, McQueen,” said Mr. Duthie, hotly.  “What was the name of the doctor that warned women never to have bairns while it was hauding?”

“And what,” retorted McQueen, “was the name of the minister that told his session he would neither preach nor pray while the black frost lasted?”

“Hoots, doctor,” said Duthie, “don’t lose your temper because I’m in such form.”

“Don’t lose yours, Duthie, because I aye beat you.”

“You beat me, McQueen!  Go home, sir, and don’t talk havers.  Who beat you at—­”

“Who made you sing small at—­”

“Who won—­”

“Who—­”

“Who—­”

“I’ll play you on Monday for whatever you like!” shrieked the doctor.

“If it holds,” cried the minister, “I’ll be here the whole day.  Name the stakes yourself.  A stone?”

“No,” the doctor said, “but I’ll tell you what we’ll play for.  You’ve been dinging me doited about that eldership, and we’ll play for’t.  If you win I accept office.”