“And he coom up to Mr. Moore,” Teddy was saying, “and says he, 'I'll gie ye twal' pun for yon gray dog o' yourn.' 'Ah,' says Moore, 'yo' may gie me twal' hunner'd and yet you'll not get ma Bob.'—Eh, Jim?”
“And he did thot,” corroborated Jim. “'Twal' hunner'd,' says he.”
“James Moore and his dog agin” snapped M'Adam. “There's ithers in the warld for bye them twa.”
“Ay, but none like 'em,” quoth loyal Jim.
“Na, thanks be. Gin there were there'd be no room for Adam M'Adam in this 'melancholy vale.'”
There was silence a moment, and then—:
“You're wantin' a tyke, bain't you, Mr. M'Adam?” Jim asked.
The little man hopped round all in a hurry.
“What!” he cried in well-affected eagerness, scanning the yellow mongrel beneath the chair. “Betsy for sale! Guid life! Where's ma check-book?” Whereat Jim, most easily snubbed of men, collapsed.
M'Adam took off his dripping coat and crossed the room to hang it on a chair-back. The stranger drover followed the meagre, shirt-clad figure with shifty eyes; then he buried his face in his mug.