d begged him to make himself
comfortable.

Well, passing over that business, Mr Wiggie and me entered into our
humours, for the drappikie was beginning to tell on my noddle, and made
me somewhat venturesome--not to say that I was not a little proud to have
the minister in my bit housie; so, says I to him in a cosh way, "Ye may
believe me or no, Mr Wiggie, but mair than me think ye out of sight the
best preacher in the parish--nane of them, Mr Wiggie, can hold the candle
to ye, man."

"Weesht, weesht," said the body, in rather a cold way that I did not
expect, knowing him to be as proud as a peacock--"I daresay I am just
like my neighbours."

This was not quite so kind--so says I to him, "Maybe sae, for many a one
thinks ye could not hold a candle to Mr Blowster the Cameronian, that
whiles preaches at Lugton."

This was a stramp on his corny toe. "Na, na," answered Mr Wiggie, rather
nettled; "let us drop that subject. I preach like my neighbours. Some
of them may be worse, and others better; just as some of your own trade
may make clothes worse, and some better, than yourself."

My corruption was raised. "I deny that," said I, in a brisk manner,
which I was sorry for after--"I deny that, Mr Wiggie," says I to him;
"I'll make a pair of breeches with the face of clay."

But this was only a passing breeze, during the which, howsoever, I
happened to swallow my thimble, which accidentally slipped off my middle
finger, causing both me and the company general alarm, as there were
great fears that it might mortify in the stomach; but it did not; and
neither word nor wittens of it have been seen or heard tell of from that
to this day. So, in two or three minutes, we had some few good songs,
and a round of Scotch proverbs, when the clock chapped eleven. We were
all getting, I must confess, a thought noisy; Johnny Soutter having
broken a dram-glass, and Willie Fegs couped a bottle on the bit table-
cloth; all noisy, I say, except Deacon Paunch, douce man, who had fallen
into a pleasant slumber; so, when the minister rose to take his hat, they
all rose except the Deacon, whom we shook by the arms for some time, but
in vain, to waken him. His round, oily face, good creature, was just as
if it had been cut out of a big turnip, it was so fat, fozy, and soft;
but at last, after some ado, we succeeded, and he looked about him with a
wild stare, opening his two red eyes, like Pandore oysters, asking what
had happened; and we