'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and
falling back again.
'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of
calling the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.
'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I
thocht ye was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's
basket. Eh me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray.
They a' ca' me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added
the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the
stain upon his birth. Yet ye had as good a right before God to be
called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of
Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him
Moray, or some better name.
'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor,
this time repeating the name with emphasis.
'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae
deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll
play some mischeef some day.'
'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken
your arm.'
'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my
twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit
frien' o' his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist
pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to
haud them gaein', ye ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added
Shargar, beseechingly.
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