“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone which she placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old heart o’ Daddy Auld.”
Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling.
“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated Mrs. Burns, who was in constant dread of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.”
“I never can tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully.
CHAPTER X
They had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the fire, Mrs. Burns and Mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly smoking, while old Donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle.
“Noo, Donald,” said Souter briskly, “play us something lively.”
“Aye, I’ll play ye the Highland Fling, Souter Johnny, an’ ye can dance. Come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his foot.