So McLaughlan went cannily about listening here and there to the men who were now at their dinners, and he found Ede's gang grumbling and growling with their mouths full; in short, enjoying at the same time a good dinner and an Englishman's grace.
“This will do,” thought the Scot, misled like continental nations by that little trait of ours; he opened the ball.
“I'm saying—my lads—will ye gie ower this weary warrk a wee whilee and sheer a wheen sheep to me?”
The men looked in his face, then at one another, and the proposal struck them as singularly droll. They burst out laughing in his face.
McLaughlan (keeping his temper thoroughly, but not without a severe struggle). “Oh, fine I ken I'll ha'e to pay a maist deevelich price for your highnesses—aweel, I'se pay—aw thing has its price; jaast name your wage for shearing five hunder sheep.”
The men whispered together. The Scot congratulated himself on his success; it would be a question of price, after all.
“We will do it for—the wool.”
“Th' 'oo?—oo ay! but hoo muckle o' th' 'oo? for ye ken—”
“How muckle? why, all.”
“A' the 'oo! ye blackguard, ye're no blate.”