“Gee hup,” said the Tinker, and he followed the ass. Then stopping, he looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the Parson’s eyes were gazing mournfully on his _protégé_, “Never fear, your reverence,” cried the Tinker kindly; “I’ll not spite ’un.” Chapter VII. “Four o’clock,” cried the Parson, looking at his watch; “half-an-hour after dinner-time, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual, because of the fine trout the Squire sent us. Will you venture on what our homely language calls ‘pot luck,’ Doctor?” Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no means inclined to the credulous view of human nature. Indeed, he was in the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of his fellow-creatures. And when the Parson thus invited him to pot luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled “her little tempers.” And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge “little tempers” in the presence of a third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the pot and the luck! Nevertheless—as he was fond of trout, and a much more good-natured man than he ought to have been according to his principles—he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the Parson. Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human motives. The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sate on watch for their master, sprung toward him barking; and the sound drew the notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash window which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I know that in thy secret heart, thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred arcana of the domestic hearth, betrayed by the author; thou art saying to thyself, “A pretty way to conciliate little tempers indeed, to add to the offense of spoiling the fish the crime of bringing an unexpected friend to eat it. Pot luck, quotha, when the pot’s boiled over this half hour!” But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader, learn that both the author and Parson Dale knew very well what they were about.