He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine
pension.'
'He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon',' said MacGregor.
'What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-leggit oye
(grandson) o' hers, Anerew's son?' asked Sampson.
'Ow! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a fine lad,
and a clever, they tell me,' said Mr. Thomson.
'Indeed, he's all that, and more too,' said the school-master.
'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo!' said MacGregor, whom
nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger.
'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to
spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm.'
'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the
bleachgreen yet.'
'She doesna weir cotton sarks,' growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob
o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu!'
Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon
the conversation with intent.
'Ye haena telt 's yet, Cocker,' he said, 'what that maister o' yours
is duin' here at this time o' the year. I wad ken that, gin ye
please.'
'How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?' returned the factor, taking no
notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put.
'He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Algerine pirates 'at Lord
Exmooth's het the hips o'--and that's my opingon.'
'He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor,' said the banker. 'Ye micht
jist lat him lie.'
'Gin I had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie! I'll jist tell
ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam' to my knowledge no a hunner year
ago.
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