The Free Fishers by John Buchan

Jock and the gig did not return till close on midday. He brought Nanty's baggage, who was now able, without borrowing from Harry Belses, to present again that appearance of sober dignity with which he had left St Andrews. Jock wore his green coat and corduroy breeches, a sufficiently workmanlike attire for the road, though at the Red Lion in Berwick it had shown up poorly in contrast to Sir Turnour's elegance. Bob had somehow managed to procure a black coat of an ancient cut, and a shirt and neckcloth in harmony with it. "Eben Garnock's," he explained. "Eben aye carries his Sabbath coat in the Merry Mouth, for he's an elder o' the Kirk, and winna miss a diet o' worship if he's in port at a week-end. He lent them readily, for he says there's nae means o' grace about Norfolk."

"What do we look like? " Jock cried, as he tested the buckles of the galloways' harness. "You're the professor again, Nanty, or maybe a stickit minister -- no, your skin's too brown and your eye too bright for a stickit minister. I'm the country bumpkin off to see the world -- it's the devil's ill luck that I haven't my new suit from McKimmie's. And Bob -- God knows what Bob is -- a cross between a Cameronian preacher and a fish-couper! Anyway, there's nothing randy about the look of us -- just three quiet lads travelling on their lawful occasions. It's the chaise that troubles me. There's a Corinthian dash about it that doesn't set well with its occupants, and there will maybe be questions asked down the road."