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Updated: June 19, 2025
I had a written word for Doig, my lord's private hand that was thought to be in all his secrets a worthy little plain man, all fat and snuff and self-sufficiency. Him I found already at his desk and already bedabbled with maccabaw, in the same anteroom where I rencountered with James More. He read the note scrupulously through like a chapter in his Bible.
I would have gone to visit her in prison too, only I remembered in time I was papa's daughter; so I wrote her a billet instead, which I entrusted to the faithful Doig, and I hope you will admit I can be political when I please. The same faithful gomeral is to despatch this letter by the express along with those of the wiseacres, so that you may hear Tom Fool in company with Solomon.
"But to be sure, we shall have the time to speak of these, since your father is so good as to make me for a while your inmate; and the gomeril begs you at this time only for the favour of his liberty." "You give yourself hard names," said she. "Mr. Doig and I would be blithe to take harder at your clever pen," says I. "Once more I have to admire the discretion of all menfolk," she replied.
"H'm," says he; "ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. Balfour. The bird's flown we hae letten her out." "Miss Drummond is set free?" I cried. "Achy!" said he. "What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae made a steer about the bairn would hae pleased naebody." "And where'll she be now?" says I. "Gude kens!" says Doig, with a shrug. "She'll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I'm thinking," said I.
"But to be sure, we shall have the time to speak of these, since your father is so good as to make me for a while your inmate; and the gomeral begs you at this time only for the favour of his liberty." "You give yourself hard names," said she. "Mr. Doig and I would be blythe to take harder at your clever pen," says I. "Once more I have to admire the discretion of all men-folk," she replied.
"H'm," says he; "ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. Balfour. The bird's flaen we hae letten her out." "Miss Drummond is set free?" I cried. "Achy!" said he. "What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae made a steer about the bairn would has pleased naebody." "And where'll she be now?" says I. "Gude kens!" says Doig, with a shrug.
"If you open any more of that stuff be good enough to go outdoors to do so," advised the Professor. "I wuz thinking ob doig it in here and shooting a papoose with some ginger ale," answered Stacy thickly. "You will keep on till you have those squaws pulling your hair, Chunky," warned Butler. The other boys were by this time eating cheese, crackers and ginger snaps.
"That'll be it," said he. "Then I'll gang there straight," says I. "But ye'll be for a bite or ye go?" said he. "Neither bite nor sup," said I. "I had a good waucht of milk in by Ratho." "Aweel, aweel," says Doig. "But ye'll can leave your horse here and your bags, for it seems we're to have your up-put." "Na, na," said I. "Tamson's mear would never be the thing for me this day of all days."
Yet the two were boon companions; Sprot was always loitering and watching at Gunnisgreen, always a guest at the great Christmas festivals, given by the Laird to his rough neighbours. The death of Logan was a disaster to Sprot, and to all the parasites of the Laird. Logan died, we saw, in July 1606. In April, 1608, Sprot was arrested by a legal official, named Watty Doig.
I had a written word for Doig, my lord's private hand that was thought to be in all his secrets, a worthy, little plain man, all fat and snuff and self-sufficiency. Him I found already at his desk and already bedabbled with maccabaw, in the same anteroom where I rencountered with James More. He read the note scrupulously through like a chapter in his Bible.
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