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His horse war aye swifter, an' his kye aye better milkers nor ither fowk's; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan' hills; nae gillies sae strang's his gillies; and nae castles sae weel biggit or sae auld as his!
"Juist you look efter your ain fokis, Bandy," says Sandy, gey peppery weys, "an' lat ither fowk's fokises aleen." "Are ye share you're richt wi' the picture?" Dauvid Kenawee speered. "There's naething wrang wi' the picture," says Sandy. "Ye see that kind o' a broon bit doon at the fit there? That's ane o' Danyil's feet."
We'll hae oor meetin's in private, an' juist lat you an' the publik ken aboot bits o' things ya can mak' naething o'. D'ye see? If ye pet your nose in aboot ony bolies harkenin', you'll mibby get the wecht o' a bissam shaft on the end o't. That'll learn ye to slooch an' harken to ither fowk's bisness." "Keep me!" says I, I says. "Ye're terriple peppery the nicht, Sandy.
"Nae that ill, but some forfochten wi' norsin' Mr Alec. Eh! sir, that's a fine lad, gin he wad only haud steady." "I'm thinkin' he winna gang far wrang again. "'Deed is she, sir. I kent her father afore her day, and I hae kent her sin ever she had a day. She's ane o' the finest bairns ever was seen." "Is she ony relation to the mistress?" "Ow, na. Nae mair relation nor 'at a' gude fowk's sib."
"Mebbe yer no?" said Leeby. "Ay, am I, but I can keep it secret. When we're in the hoose am juist richt fond o' ye." "Do ye love me, Jamie?" Jamie waggled his head in irritation. "Love," he said, "is an awful like word to use when fowk's weel. Ye shouldna speir sic annoyin' queistions." "But if ye juist say ye love me I'll never let on again afore fowk 'at yer onything to me ava."
"I am, I am, Peter!" cried Marion, breaking down at once, and utterly. "Dee what ye wull, and I'll dee the same only lat it be dene quaietly, 'ithoot din or proclamation! What for sud a'body ken a'thing! Wha has the richt to see intil ither fowk's herts and lives? The wail' could ill gang on gien that war the gait o' 't!"
Weel, Sandy had been speakin' aboot his fairntickles to Saunders Robb. Saunders, in my opinion, is juist a haiverin' auld ass. He's a hoddel-dochlin', hungert-lookin' wisgan o' a cratur; an', I'm shure, he has a mind to match his body. There's naethin' he disna ken aboot an', the fac' is, he kens naething. He's aye i' the wey o' improvin' ither fowk's wark.
Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmatical; but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned upon Duncan. He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried, "Ta woman is not pe no mothers to Tuncan's poy!" "Huly, huly, Mr MacPhail!" interposed Miss Horn, with good natured revenge; "it may be naething but fowk's lees, ye ken."
"Losh, man! gien I can save my ain sowl, it'll be a' 'at I'm fit for, ohn lo'dent it wi' a haill congregation o' ither fowk's.
They're not to be traitet like fowk's insides wi' onything 'at comes first. Gin I cud jist get the middle half-pint oot o' the hert o' a hogsheid o' sperm ile, I wad I sud keep a' yer watches gaein like the verra universe. But it wad be an ill thing for me, ye ken. Sae maybe a' thing's for the best efter a'. Noo, ye see, i' this het weather, the ile keeps fine an' saft, and disna clog the warks.
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