“Dear me! Ah, I see your honour knows all about Durham city. And now let me ask one question. How came your honour to Durham city and county? I don’t think your honour is a Durham man, either of town or field.”
“I am not; but when I was a little boy I passed through Durham county with my mother and brother to a place called Scotland.”
“Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!”
“So it is,” said I; “a queerer country I never saw in all my life.”
“And a queer set of people, your honour.”
“So they are,” said I; “a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would scarcely see in a summer’s day.”
“The Durham folks, neither of town or field, have much reason to speak well of the Scotch, your honour.”
“I dare say not,” said I; “very few people have.”
“And yet the Durham folks, your honour, generally contrived to give them as good as they brought.”
“That they did,” said I; “a pretty licking the Durham folks once gave the Scots under the walls of Durham city, after the scamps had been plundering the country for three weeks—a precious licking they gave them, slaying I don’t know how many thousands, and taking their king prisoner.”