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And Jack Paterson went away, followed by Barrie. "Now, doctor, would you just let us hear what you have to say, please?" said Mr. Duke, turning to Dr. Linklater. The doctor kept his seat, and said: "Mr. Drever came to me early on Friday morning and told me that Colin Lothian had been shot dead over by Mary Firth's cottage, and I went out.
Others had turned them into the gold of success. He wondered how old Dunn was getting on, and Linklater, and little Martin. How far away seemed those days, and yet only some four or five months separated him from them. "One was a failure, a dead, flat failure," continued the preacher. "Not so much a wicked man, no murderer, no drunkard, no gambler, but a miserable failure. Poor fellow!
Meantime let us go out, and, in your own picturesque vocabulary, let us 'hit the flowing bowl." "No, Sir!" cried Martin emphatically. "No more! I am on the water wagon, and have been all summer." "I knew it was something," replied Linklater gloomily, "but I didn't think it was quite so bad as that. No wonder you've had a hard summer!" "Best summer ever!" cried Martin.
'Tis the like of Hiram Linklater I reckon, as keep up the sentiment of approval for capital punishment; because even in the softest head, it must be granted that a baby-poisoner is the sort that's better under the earth than on it. No.
"It is e'en true, my lord, and so we, his old servants, know," added Linklater; "but, woe's me, if you knew how many folks make it their daily and nightly purpose to set his head against his heart, and his heart against his head to make him do hard things because they are called just, and unjust things because they are represented as kind.
"I am neither gangrel, nor spy, nor Amalekite, nor yet am I Zebedee Linklater. My name is Andrew Garvald, and I have to-day left my home to make my way to Edinburgh College. I tried a short road in the mist, and here I am." "Nay, but what seek ye?" cried Muckle John. "The Lord has led ye to our company by His own good way. What seek ye? I say again, and yea, a third time."
These experiences were some of them exciting, some of them of doubtful ethical quality, but all of them to Linklater at least interesting. During the recital it was gradually borne in upon him that his friend Martin was changed. Linklater, as the consciousness of the change in his friend grew upon him, was prepared to resent it. "What the deuce is the matter with you?" he enquired. "Are you ill?"
He now took possession of a wherry, folded his arms within his ample cloak, and sitting down in the stern with an air of importance, commanded them to row to Whitehall Stairs. Having reached the Palace in safety, he demanded to see Master Linklater, the under- clerk of his Majesty's kitchen.
I fancy he had a hint from Linklater how the truth stood with me." "Well, maiden, I ask not what passed," said Heriot; "it becomes not me to pry into my Master's secrets.
Ye are red wud," said Linklater; then shouted to his assistant in the kitchen, "Look to the broches, ye knaves pisces purga Salsamenta fac macerentur pulchre I will make you understand Latin, ye knaves, as becomes the scullions of King James." Then in a cautious tone, to Richie's private ear, he continued, "Know ye not how ill your master came off the other day?
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