g-eyed solemnity, and set down
the chest; "it's no wonder, seeing that I'm carrying my a-all."

"Ay, man, John. How's that na?"

To be the centre of interest and the object of gracious condescension
was balm to the wounded feelings of Gilmour. Gourlay had lowered him,
but this reception restored him to his own good opinion. He was usually
called "Jock" (except by his mother, to whom, of course, he was "oor
Johnny"), but the best merchants in the town were addressing him as
"John." It was a great occasion. Gilmour expanded in gossip beneath its
influence benign.

He welcomed, too, this first and fine opportunity of venting his wrath
on the Gourlays.

"Oh, I just telled Gourlay what I thocht of him, and took the door ahint
me. I let him have it hot and hardy, I can tell ye. He'll no forget _me_
in a hurry"--Gilmour bawled angrily, and nodded his head significantly,
and glared fiercely, to show what good cause he had given Gourlay to
remember him--"he'll no forget _me_ for a month of Sundays."

"Ay, man, John, what did ye say till him?"

"Na, man, what did he say to you?"

"Wath he angry, Dyohn?"

"How did the thing begin?"

"Tell us, man, John."

"What was it a-all about, John?"

"Was Mrs. Gourlay there?"

Bewildered by this pelt of questions, Gilmour answered the last that hit
his ear. "There, ay; faith, she was there. It was her was the cause
o't."

"D'ye tell me that, John? Man, you surprise me. I would have thocht the
thowless trauchle[3] hadna the smeddum left to interfere."

"Oh, it was yon boy of hers. He's aye swaggerin' aboot, interferin' wi'
folk at their wark--he follows his faither's example in that, for as the
auld cock craws the young ane learns--and his mither's that daft aboot
him that ye daurna give a look! He came in my road when I was sweeping
out the close, and some o' the dirty jaups splashed about his shins. But
was I to blame for that?--ye maun walk wide o' a whalebone besom if ye
dinna want to be splashed. Afore I kenned where I was, he up wi' a dirty
washing-clout and slashed me in the face wi't! I hit him a thud in the
ear--as wha wadna? Out come his mither like a fury, skirling about _her_
hoose, and _her_ servants, and _her_ weans. 'Your servant!' says
I--'your servant! You're a nice-looking trollop to talk aboot servants,'
says I."

"Did ye really, John?"

"Man, that wath bauld o' ye."

"And what did _she_ say?"

"Oh, she just kept skirling! And then, to be sure, Gourl