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Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench? 'I ham, Walter, my lad, 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind. An' so I took one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes, but 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt. An' so, yer see, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice chap!"
The anxious mother was counselling her young son regarding his behavior at the table of that excellent lady: 'An' mind, Macgreegor, ye're no' to be askin' fur jeely till ye've ett twa bits o' breed-an'-butter. It's no' mainners; an' yer Aunt Purdie's rale partecclar. An' yer no' to dicht yer mooth wi' yer cuff mind that. Ye're to tak' yer hanky an' let on ye're jist gi'ein' yer nib a bit wipe.
'Maybe the kilt had something to dae wi' it, Willie modestly allowed. 'They a' adore the kilt. Can ye no spare saxpence . . . weel, thruppence? 'I could spare ye a bat on the ear, but I'll tell ye what I'll dae. I've got some money comin' the morn, an' I'll present ye wi' twa bob, if ye'll tak' yer oath to spend them baith on gi'ein' the fat yin a treat. Willie gasped.
'Drap the dish-cover, croaked Willie, and halted for a minute's rest. Then on again. But at long last Willie muttered: 'I think it's oor trench. If I'm wrang, fareweel to Argyle Street! I'll ha'e to risk gi'ein' them a hail in case some silly blighter lets fly in this rotten licht. Slip doon, Mac nae hurry nae use hurtin' yersel' for naething.
Possibly she detected the twinkle and perceived her relapse, for she went on quickly 'Though dear knows hoo Mistress McOstrich can afford to gi'e a pairty wi' her man's trade in its present condeetion. 'She's been daft for gi'ein' pah-ties since ever I can mind, Mr.
What's wrang?" asked Walker in affected surprise. "I'll get ye a place," he went on hurriedly, "just as soon as I can in fac' there's yin that'll be ready by the morn." "I'm no gi'ein' a damn for yer place. It's you I'm efter the nicht. Come on, face up," and Sinclair squared himself for battle.
Weel, weel, preserve me frae the female sect! I suppose ye'll be for gi'ein' yer ain folk a treat for a change. 'They're a' at Rothesay, at Granpaw Purdie's, Macgregor returned shortly, now half glad that he had let the letter go. It was not a harsh letter, yet neither was it a humble one.
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