“The bagpipes, do you mean?”
“Ay; my gran’father plays them.”
“But you’re not in the Highlands here: how come you to have bagpipes?”
“It’s a stray bag, an’ no more. But the fowk here likes the cry o’ ’t weel eneuch, an’ hae ’t to wauk them ilka mornin’. Yon was my gran’father ye heard afore I fired the gun. Yon was his pipes waukin’ them, honest fowk.”
“And what made you fire the gun in that reckless way? Don’t you know it is very dangerous?”
“Dangerous, mem—my leddy, I mean! There was naething intill ’t but a pennyworth o’ blastin’ pooder. It wadna blaw the froth aff o’ the tap o’ a jaw (billow).”
“It nearly blew me out of my small wits, though.”
“I’m verra sorry it frichtit ye. But, gien I had seen ye, I bude to fire the gun.”
“I don’t understand you quite; but I suppose you mean it was your business to fire the gun.”
“Jist that, my leddy.”