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Updated: June 16, 2025
If the mean beggar'd on'y square up with me, I'd let summedy else do his" "Thon's a brave wee shilty, sur-thon grey wan o' yours," broke in the contractor, who had been conversing with Thompson, whilst looking enviously at Fancy, hitched behind the wagon.
Her dress was in tatters, she was spitting blood, and wiping it off her mouth with the back of her hand. "Hullo, Meg, Peg, whatever your name is," said Donald Ward, "you're bleeding. Where are you cut? Let me see to it?" "Thon's no my blood," said the girl. "It's his. I got my teeth intil him. Ay, faith, it's his blood that I'm spitting out of my mouth.
"Ye'll be late gittin' to the ram-paddock, Tamson," remarked M'Nab, treating Cooper with the silent contempt usually lavished upon men of his physique. "Axpect thon's where ye're makin' fur?" "I say you better camp with us to-night," suggested Thompson, evading the implied inquiry.
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