“Just so,” continued Mr Hamilton; “and was he dead or alive when he was born?”
“Indeed, sir, little Tam wras as life-like as you are when I handled him wi’ thae hands.”
“How do you know that?” was the next question.
“Ken whether a bairn is dead or living?” responded the midwife, with an ironical laugh. “Do dead bairns scream, think ye, Maister Hamilton? Ay, sir, I heard little Tam cry just as plainly as I hear you speak. It’s God’s way wi’ mony a wean. They seem to ken it’s an ill warld they’re born into, wi’ so mony lawyers in’t, and they just gie a cry and gae awa back again.”
And thus the evidence was concluded; nor did it ever occur to these hair-wigged and ear-wigged gentlemen to ask the astute howdie whether there was any other creature in the house (except Mr Thomas Whitelaw himself, who was out of the question) that bore the name of Tam; and Mrs Lythgow’s conscience, like many others, sat as easy on the equivocation as a hen does on an addled egg with a shell like the rest, which contain little chickens all alive. And the case was virtually saved, as subsequently appeared, when the fifteen, all ear-wigged too, pronounced sentence in favour of the defender, Mr Whitelaw. But it was not till some time afterwards the real truth came out. “The labourer is worthy of his hire,” and when Mrs Euphan called for fee, on Mr Whitelaw asking how much, the cunning howdie replied—
“Just a hundred merks, Maister Whitelaw.”
“A hundred merks for bringing a child into the world, which lived no longer than to give a scream?”
“Ay, but you forget pinched Tam,” replied she.
Whereupon Mr Whitelaw began to meditate, and thereupon ejaculated—“Oh! I see. Yes, yes; I did forget pinched Tam; and now I remember, he came into me that evening after you had ejected him from the bed-room.”
“Surely, sir,” rejoined the woman; “think ye I was fule enough to keep him in the room to be seen by the women, after I had got out o’ him a’ that I wanted?”