onnie girdle cakes o' the
north!--and sae we sat doun and took out our clavers."

"I wish you would take them out just now. Pray, tell me the news, if you
have got any worth telling, for I can't stop here all night."

"Than, if ye maun hae't, the folk in Lunnun are a' clean wud about this
bit job in the north here."

"Clean wood! what's that?"

"Ou, just real daft--neither to haud nor to bind--a' hirdy-girdy--clean
through ither--the deil's ower Jock Wabster."

[Illustration: Frank and Andrew Fairservice--194]

"But what does all this mean? or what business have I with the devil or
Jack Webster?"

"Umph!" said Andrew, looking extremely knowing, "it's just because--just
that the dirdum's a' about yon man's pokmanty."

"Whose portmanteau? or what do you mean?"

"Ou, just the man Morris's, that he said he lost yonder: but if it's no
your honour's affair, as little is it mine; and I mauna lose this
gracious evening."

And, as if suddenly seized with a violent fit of industry, Andrew began
to labour most diligently.

My attention, as the crafty knave had foreseen, was now arrested, and
unwilling, at the same time, to acknowledge any particular interest in
that affair, by asking direct questions, I stood waiting till the spirit
of voluntary communication should again prompt him to resume his story.
Andrew dug on manfully, and spoke at intervals, but nothing to the
purpose of Mr. Macready's news; and I stood and listened, cursing him in
my heart, and desirous at the same time to see how long his humour of
contradiction would prevail over his desire of speaking upon the subject
which was obviously uppermost in his mind.

"Am trenching up the sparry-grass, and am gaun to saw some Misegun beans;
they winna want them to their swine's flesh, I'se warrant--muckle gude
may it do them. And siclike dung as the grieve has gien me!--it should be
wheat-strae, or aiten at the warst o't, and it's pease dirt, as
fizzenless as chuckie-stanes. But the huntsman guides a' as he likes
about the stable-yard, and he's selled the best o' the litter, I'se
warrant. But, howsoever, we mauna lose a turn o' this Saturday at e'en,
for the wather's sair broken, and if there's a fair day in seven,
Sunday's sure to come and lick it up--Howsomever, I'm no denying that it
may settle, if it be Heaven's will, till Monday morning,--and what's the
use o' my breaking my back at this rate?--I think, I'll e'en awa' hame,
for yon's the curfew, as th