t aboon
the meal, they'll begin to speak about government in kirk and state, and
then, Jenny, they are like to quarrel--let them be doing--anger's a
drouthy passion, and the mair they dispute, the mair ale they'll drink;
but ye were best serve them wi' a pint o' the sma' browst, it will heat
them less, and they'll never ken the difference."

"But, father," said Jenny, "if they come to lounder ilk ither, as they
did last time, suldna I cry on you?"

"At no hand, Jenny; the redder gets aye the warst lick in the fray. If
the sodgers draw their swords, ye'll cry on the corporal and the guard.
If the country folk tak the tangs and poker, ye'll cry on the bailie and
town-officers. But in nae event cry on me, for I am wearied wi' doudling
the bag o' wind a' day, and I am gaun to eat my dinner quietly in the
spence.--And, now I think on't, the Laird of Lickitup (that's him that
was the laird) was speering for sma' drink and a saut herring--gie him a
pu' be the sleeve, and round into his lug I wad be blithe o' his company
to dine wi' me; he was a gude customer anes in a day, and wants naething
but means to be a gude ane again--he likes drink as weel as e'er he did.
And if ye ken ony puir body o' our acquaintance that's blate for want o'
siller, and has far to gang hame, ye needna stick to gie them a waught o'
drink and a bannock--we'll ne'er miss't, and it looks creditable in a
house like ours. And now, hinny, gang awa', and serve the folk, but first
bring me my dinner, and twa chappins o' yill and the mutchkin stoup o'
brandy."

Having thus devolved his whole cares on Jenny as prime minister, Niel
Blane and the ci-devant laird, once his patron, but now glad to be his
trencher-companion, sate down to enjoy themselves for the remainder of
the evening, remote from the bustle of the public room.

All in Jenny's department was in full activity. The knights of the
popinjay received and requited the hospitable entertainment of their
captain, who, though he spared the cup himself, took care it should go
round with due celerity among the rest, who might not have otherwise
deemed themselves handsomely treated. Their numbers melted away by
degrees, and were at length diminished to four or five, who began to talk
of breaking up their party. At another table, at some distance, sat two
of the dragoons, whom Niel Blane had mentioned, a sergeant and a private
in the celebrated John Grahame of Claverhouse's regiment of Life-Guards.
Even the