He was a keen man was Asher; as keen a man as ever said "Amen" after a prayer and didn't mean it. Ill-natured folks said he only seemed in his element on Commination-day, when, after all the Curseds, he rolled out the Amens with the greatest of gusto, and as if he really did mean it, while the rector would quite shiver--but then the wind generally is easterly at commination time, in the cold spring. He used to boast that he had neither chick nor child, did Asher; and here again people would say it was a blessing, for one Skurge was enough in a village; and that it was a further blessing that his was a slow race. He was a cold-blooded old rascal; but for all that he was warm, inasmuch as he had well feathered his nest, and might by this time have been churchwarden; but he preferred being clerk, to the very great disgust of Parson Frith, who would gladly have been rid of him long enough before. It did seem too bad to go worrying a poor widow for rent on a Christmas-eve; but nothing was too bad for Asher, who soon made the poor woman's heart leap, and then sink with despair. Old Skurge was soon back in his own room, and the wind at last blew so very cold that he indulged in the extravagance of an extra shovel of coals, and a small chump of wood, and then he drew his pipe from the corner and began to smoke, filling the bowl out of a small white gallipot containing a mixture, half tobacco, half herbs, which he found most economical; for it did not merely spin out the tobacco, but no dropper-in ever cared about having a pipe of "Skurge's particular," as it was named in the village. Then, after smoking a bit, Asher seemed moved to proceed to further extravagance, in consequence of its being Christmas-eve; so he laid down his pipe, rubbed his ear, and then plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a small key. The small key opened a small cupboard, wherein hung upon nails some half-dozen larger keys, one of which was taken down and used to open a larger cupboard, from which Asher Skurge brought forth a well-corked and tied-down bottle. A cunning, inhospitable old rascal, bringing out his hidden treasures to bib on a winter's night alone. What was it in the old black bottle? Curacoa, maraschino, cherry brandy, genuine hollands, potent rum, cognac? Hush! was it smuggled-up remains, or an odd bottle of sacramental wine? No, it was none of these; but it poured forth clear, bright, and amber-hued, with a creaming foam on the top; and--"blob;" what was that? a swollen raisin, and the grains that slipped to the bottom were rice.