"Wha the hell's this noo?" asked Geordie, when he heard the tap at the
door, as he looked up through soapy eyes, his head all lathered with the
black suds. "Dammit, they micht let folk get washed," he said angrily.

When he heard the voice of the minister, he plunged his head into the
tub, and began splashing and rubbing, and lifting the water over his
head.

"Oh, you are busy washing, I see, Mr. Sinclair," observed the minister,
looking at the naked collier.

"Ay," said Geordie shortly, "an' I dinna think you'd ha'e thankit me for
comin' in on the tap o' you, when you were washin' yerself," he said
bluntly--a remark which his wife felt to be a bit ill-natured, though
she said nothing.

"Oh, I am sorry," replied the minister. "I did not mean to intrude. I'll
not stay, but will call back some other time," and his voice was
apologetic and ill at ease.

"I think sae," retorted Geordie, splashing away and spitting the soap
from his mouth. "Yer room's mair to my taste than yer company the noo."

"My! that was an awfu' way to talk to the meenister," said Mrs. Sinclair
when the door was again closed. "You micht aye try to be civil to folk,"
and there was resentment in her voice.

"Ach, dammit, wha can be bothered wi' thae kind o' folk yapping roun'
about when yer washin' yerself. He micht ken no' to come at this time,