'Ow, nae muckle; only this: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."--Itook a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi' the Welsh giant--was 't Blunderbore they ca'd him?--an' poored the maist o' my glaiss doon my breist.It wasna like ink; it wadna du my sark ony ill.'
'But what garred ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit company for a gentleman.'
'A gentleman 's some saft gin he be ony the waur o' the company he gangs in till.There may be rizzons, ye ken.Ye needna du as they du.Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' Black Geordie.An'
says I--for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss (broom-bush) as I used to be--says I, "Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?"An' says Jock, "Brawly.Wha the deevil are ye?" An' says I, "Nae mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron Rothie, either--though maybe that's no little o' ane." "Preserve me!" cried Jock, "it's Shargar."--"Nae mair o' that, Jock," says I.
"Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune,"--an' there I stack, for Isaw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock.And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an'
to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman."Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?" I said."Oot by here," he answert, "at Luckie Maitlan's."--"That's a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock,"says I."There's rizzons," says he, an' lays his forefinger upo' the side o' 's nose, o' whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee."We're no far frae there," says I--an'
deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but Ijist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter;"tak the horse hame," says I--"I'll jist loup upo' Black Geordie--an' we'll hae a glaiss thegither.I'll stan' treat." Sae he gae me the bridle, an' I lap on.The deevil tried to get a moufu' o' my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for 'im; an' awa we rade.'
'I didna ken 'at ye cud ride, Shargar.'
'Hoots! I cudna help it.I was aye takin' the horse to the watter at The Boar's Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit's, or The Aucht an' Furty.That's hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel.We war guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care for leein' or sweirin', an'
sic like.'
'And what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo?'
'I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine was efter.I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or three times i' the gloamin'; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot onything.'
'What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 's aboot?'
'Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a' 'at fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage--gran' words!--I wonner whaur she forgathert wi' them.But she was a terrible wuman, my mither, an' kent a heap o' things--mair nor 'twas gude to ken, maybe.She gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an' they say the gipsies she gaed amang 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians 'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'.'
'Whaur is she noo?'
'I dinna ken.She may turn up ony day.'
'There's ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman, ye maunna gang keekin' that gate intil ither fowk's affairs.'
'Weel, I maun gie 't up.I winna say a word o' what Jock Mitchell tellt me aboot Lord Sandy.'
'Ow, say awa'.'
'Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowk's affairs.My mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a fremt (stranger) lass at Brussels.But that's neither here nor there.Imaun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht.'
'What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do you make such a mystery of it?' said Robert, authoritatively, and in his best English.
''Deed I cudna mak naething o' 'm.He winkit an' he mintit (hinted)an' he gae me to unnerstan' 'at the deevil was efter some lass or ither, but wha--my lad was as dumb 's the graveyard about that.Gin I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him a plisky.But he coupit ower three glasses o' whusky, an' the mair he drank the less he wad say.An' sae I left him.'
'Well, take care what you're about, Shargar.I don't think Dr.
Anderson would like you to be in such company,' said Robert; and Shargar departed to his own room and his version.
Towards the end of the session Miss St.John's reports of Ericson were worse.Yet he was very hopeful himself, and thought he was getting better fast.Every relapse he regarded as temporary; and when he got a little better, thought he had recovered his original position.It was some relief to Miss St.John to communicate her anxiety to Robert.
After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three, Robert went the same evening to visit Dr.Anderson, intending to go home the next day.The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns--a rare sight in Scotland.Robert little thought in what service he was about to spend them.
