blacksmith's. He had rather pale blue eyes, which seemed to have
looked much at the sun, and a small moustache the colour of ripe hay.
His voice was low and pleasant, and he pronounced his words precisely,
like a foreigner.

He was very ready to talk, but in defiance of Dr. Johnson's warning,
his talk was all questions. He wanted to know everything about the
neighbourhood--who lived in what houses, what were the distances
between the towns, what harbours would admit what class of vessel.
Smiling agreeably, he put Dickson through a catechism to which he
knew none of the answers. The landlord was called in, and proved
more helpful. But on one matter he was fairly at a loss.
The catechist asked about a house called Darkwater, and was met
with a shake of the head. "I know no sic-like name in this
countryside, sir," and the catechist looked disappointed.

The literary young man said nothing, but ate trout abstractedly,
one eye on his book. The fish had been caught by the anglers
in the Loch o' the Threshes, and phrases describing their capture
floated from the other end of the table. The young man had a second
helping, and then refused the excellent hill mutton that followed,
contenting himself with cheese. Not so Dickson and the catechist.
They ate everything that was set before them, topping up with a
glass of port. Then the latter, who had been talking illuminatingly
about Spain, rose, bowed, and left the table, leaving Dickson,
who liked to linger over his meals, to the society of the
ichthyophagous student.

He nodded towards the book. "Interesting?" he asked.