“Mr. Groove, I am a poor fainting pilgrim on the road, where stronger spirits have marched erect before me.”
“A faintin' pelgrim! Deil a frights o' ye, ye're a brisk and bonny lad. Ah, sirr, in my juvenile days, we didna fash wi nature, and truth, an the like.”
“The like! What is like nature and truth, except themselves?”
“Vara true, sirr; vara true, and sae I doot I will never attain the height o' profeeciency ye hae reached. An' at this vara moment, sir,” continued Groove, with delicious solemnity and mystery, “ye see before ye, sir, a man wha is in maist dismal want—o' ten shellen!” (A pause.) “If your superior talent has put ye in possession of that sum, ye would obleege me infinitely by a temporary accommodation, Mr. Gaattie.”
“Why did you not come to the point at once?” cried Gatty, bruskly, “instead of humbling me with undeserved praise. There.” Groove held out his hand, but made a wry face when, instead of money, Gatty put a sketch into his hand.
“There,” said Gatty, “that is a lie!”
“How can it be a lee?” said the other, with sour inadvertence. “How can it be a lee, when I hae na spoken?”
“You don't understand me. That sketch is a libel on a poor cow and an unfortunate oak-tree. I did them at the Academy. They had never done me any wrong, poor things; they suffered unjustly. You take them to a shop, swear they are a tree and a cow, and some fool, that never really looked into a cow or a tree, will give you ten shillings for them.”
“Are ye sure, lad?”
“I am sure. Mr. Groove, sir, if you can not sell a lie for ten shillings you are not fit to live in this world; where is the lie that will not sell for ten shillings?”