“Our party is large; we want a cook for it, and we offer you the place in return for past kindness.”
“Me a cuik, y' impudent vagabond!” cried the Caledonian, red as a turkey-cock; and, if a look could have crushed a party of eight, their hole had been their grave.
McLaughlan took seven ireful steps—wide ones—then his hot anger assumed a cold, sardonic form, he returned, and with blighting satire speered this question by way of gratifying an ironical curiosity.
“An' whaat would ye ha'e the cheek t'offer a McLanghlan to cuik till ye, you that kens sae fine the price o' wark?”
“Thirty shillings.”
“Thretty shilling the week for a McLaughlan!”
“The week,” cried Ede, “nonsense—thirty shillings a day of course. We sell work for gold, sir, and we give gold for it; look here!” and he suddenly bared a sturdy brown arm, and, smacking it, cried, “That is dirt where you come from, but it is gold here.”
“Ye're a fine lad,” said the Scot, smoothly, “and ye've a boeny aerm,” added he, looking down at it. “I'se no deny that. I'm thinking—I'll just come—and cuik till ye a wee—for auld lang syne—thretty schelln the day—an' ye'll buy the flesh o' me. I'll sell it a hantle cheaper than thir warldly-minded fleshers.”
Bref, he came to be shorn, and remained to fleece.
He went and told George what he had done.