What exactly the great man collected, or what functions and powers might be included in his office, were not matters Muirtown pretended to define or dared to pry into. It was enough that he was, in the highest and final sense of the word, Collector--no mere petty official of a local body, but the representative of the Imperial Government and the commissioned servant of Her Majesty the Queen, raised above principalities and powers in the shape of bailies and provosts, and owning no authority save, as was supposed, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. For any one to confound him with the collector of, say, water rates was either abysmal ignorance or, it might be, although one hoped not, a piece of Radical insolence and a despising of dignities. It was good manners to call him by his title--many would have had difficulty in mentioning his private name, which was, I believe, Thomas Richard Thome, just as the Queen's, I believe, is Guelph--and it was pleasing to hear a porter at the station shout, amid a crowd of tourists going to the Kilspindie Arms, “Collector's cab”; or Bailie MacCallum on the street, “Fine morning, Collector”; and one did not wonder that the session of the “North Free” exalted its head when this kind of thing went on at its meetings: “Moderator, with your permission, I would like to have the mind of the Collector”; and then in reply, “Moderator, my views practically coincide with those of the Fiscal” And there were dinner tables, such as old Peter MacCash's, the manager of the Muirtown Bank, where conversation reached a very high level of decoration, and nothing could be heard save “Sheriff,” “Provost,” “Collector,” “Town Clerk,” “Fiscal,” “Banker,” “Doctor,” “Dean of Guild,” and such like, till an untitled person hardly dared to defend his most cherished opinion.