."

"Troth, I am thinking sae," continued his tormentor, who seemed to have
pleasure in rubbing the galled wound, "troth, I aye thought sae; and
it's no sae lang since I said to Luckie Gemmers, Never think you,
luckie' said I, that his honour Monkbarns would hae done sic a daft-like
thing as to gie grund weel worth fifty shillings an acre, for a mailing
that would be dear o'a pund Scots. Na, na,' quo' I, depend upon't the
lard's been imposed upon wi that wily do-little deevil, Johnnie Howie.'
But Lord haud a care o' us, sirs, how can that be,' quo' she again, when
the laird's sae book-learned, there's no the like o' him in the country
side, and Johnnie Howie has hardly sense eneugh to ca' the cows out o'
his kale-yard?' Aweel, aweel,' quo' I, but ye'll hear he's circumvented
him with some of his auld-warld stories,'--for ye ken, laird, yon other
time about the bodle that ye thought was an auld coin"--

"Go to the devil!" said Oldbuck; and then in a more mild tone, as one
that was conscious his reputation lay at the mercy of his antagonist, he
added--"Away with you down to Monkbarns, and when I come back, I'll send
ye a bottle of ale to the kitchen."

"Heaven reward your honour!" This was uttered with the true mendicant
whine, as, setting his pike-staff before him, he began to move in the
direction of Monkbarns.--"But did your honour," turning round, "ever get
back the siller ye gae to the travelling packman for the bodle?"

"Curse thee, go about thy business!"

"Aweel, aweel, sir, God bless your honour! I hope ye'll ding Johnnie
Howie yet, and that I'll live to see it." And so saying, the old beggar
moved off, relieving Mr. Oldbuck of recollections which were anything
rather than agreeable.

"Who is this familiar old gentleman?" said Lovel, when the mendicant was
out of hearing.

"O, one of the plagues of the country--I have been always against
poor's-rates and a work-house--I think I'll vote for them now, to have
that scoundrel shut up. O, your old-remembered guest of a beggar becomes
as well acquainted with you as he is with his dish--as intimate as one
of the beasts familiar to man which signify love, and with which his own
trade is especially conversant. Who is he?--why, he has gone the vole--
has been soldier, ballad-singer, travelling tinker, and is now a
beggar. He is spoiled by our foolish gentry, who laugh at his jokes, and
rehearse Edie Ochiltree's good thing's as regularly as Joe Miller's."

"Why, he