"So your name's Bruce, is it?" resumed Cupples, as the other returned to the counter.
"Robert Bruce, sir, at your service."
"It's a gran' name," said Cupples with emphasis.
"'Deed is't, and I hae a richt to beir 't."
"Ye'll be a descendant, nae doot, o' the Yerl o' Carrick?" said
Cupples, guessing at his weakness.
"O' the king, sir. Fowk may think little o' me; but I come o' him that freed Scotland. Gin it hadna been for Bannockburn, sir, whaur wad Scotland hae been the day?"
"Nearhan' civileezed unner the fine influences o' the English, wi' their cultivation and their mainners, and, aboon a', their gran' Edwards and Hairries."
"I dinna richtly unnerstan' ye, sir," said Bruce. "Ye hae heard hoo the king clave the skull o' Sir Henry dee Bohunn�-haena ye, sir?"
"Ow, aye. But it was a pity it wasna the ither gait. Lat me see the way to my room, for I want to wash my han's and face. They're jist barkit wi' stour (dust)."
Bruce hesitated whether to show Mr Cupples out or in. His blue blood boiled at this insult to his great progenitor. But a half-crown would cover a greater wrong than that even, and he obeyed. Cupples followed him up-stairs, murmuring to himself: