“Ye're maybe wantin' a dog?” inquired the stranger. “Yer friend said as much.”
“Ma friend lied; it's his way,” M'Adam replied.
“I'm willin' to part wi' him,” the other pursued.
The little man yawned. “Weel, I'll tak' him to oblige ye,” he said indifferently.
The drover rose to his feet.
“It's givin' 'im ye, fair givin' im ye, mind! But I'll do it!”—he smacked a great fist into a hollow palm. “Ye may have the dog for a pun'—I'll only ask you a pun',” and he walked away to the window.
M'Adam drew back, the better to scan his would-be benefactor; his lower jaw dropped, and he eyed the stranger with a drolly sarcastic air.
“A poun', man! A pouxi'—for yon noble dorg!” he pointed a crooked forefinger at the little creature, whose scowling mask peered from beneath the chair. “Man, I couldna do it. Na, na; ma conscience wadna permit me. 'Twad be fair robbin' ye. Ah, ye Englishmen!” he spoke half to himself, and sadly, as if deploring the unhappy accident of his nationality; “it's yer grand, open-hairted generosity that grips a puir Scotsman by the throat. A poun'! and for yon!” He wagged his head mournfully, cocking it sideways the better to scan his subject.
“Take him or leave him,” ordered the drover truculently, still gazing out of the window.
“Wi' yer permission I'll leave him,” M'Adam answered meekly.