"You twist the Bible to suit your own ends, Mr. Joltram," retorted Arbroath contemptuously. "It is the common habit of atheists and blasphemers generally." "Then, by the Lord!" exclaimed the irrepressible "Feathery," "All th' atheists an' blasphemers must be a-gathered in the fold o' the Church, for if the pazons doan't twist the Bible to suit their own ends, I'm blest if I knaw whaat else they does for a decent livin'!" Just then a puff of fine odour from the Havana cigar which Helmsley was enjoying floated under the nostrils of Mr. Arbroath, and added a fresh touch of irritation to his temper. He turned at once upon the offending smoker. "So! You pretend to be poor!" he snarled, "And yet you can smoke a cigar that must have cost a shilling!" "It was given to me," replied Helmsley gently. "Given to you! Bah! Who would give an old tramp a cigar like that?" "I would!" And Tom o' the Gleam sprang lightly up from his chair, his black eyes sparkling with mingled defiance and laughter--"And I did! Here!--will you take another?" And he drew out and opened a handsome case full of the cigars in question. "Thank you!" and Arbroath's pallid lips trembled with rage. "I decline to share in stolen plunder!" "Ha--ha--ha! Ha--ha!" laughed Tom hilariously. "Stolen plunder! That's good! D'ye think I'd steal when I can buy! Reverend sir, Tom o' the Gleam is particular as to what he smokes, and he hasn't travelled all over the world for nothing: 'Qu'en dictes-vous? Faut-il a ce musier, _Il n'est tresor que de vivre a son aise_!'" Helmsley listened in wonderment. Here was a vagrant of the highroads and woods, quoting the refrain of Villon's _Contreditz de Franc-Gontier_, and pronouncing the French language with as soft and pure an accent as ever came out of Provence. Meanwhile, Mr. Arbroath, paying no attention whatever to Tom's outburst, looked at his watch. "It is now a quarter-past ten," he announced dictatorially; "I should advise you all to be going." "By the law we needn't go till eleven, though Miss Tranter _does_ halve it," said Bill Bush sulkily--"and perhaps we won't!" Mr. Arbroath fixed him with a stern glance. "Do you know that I am here in the cause of Temperance?" he said. "Oh, are ye? Then why don't ye call on Squire Evans, as is the brewer wi' the big 'ouse yonder?" queried Bill defiantly. "'E's the man to go to! Arsk 'im to shut up 'is brewery an' sell no more ale wi' pizon in't to the poor! That'll do more for Temp'rance than the early closin' o' the 'Trusty Man.'"