Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to part with some of the less desirable of them, and so lighten his basket, before entering the grounds of Lossie House. But he had met with little success, and was now approaching the town-gate, as they called it, which closed a short street at right angles to the principal one, when he came upon Mrs Catanach—on her knees, cleaning her doorstep.
“Weel, Malcolm, what fish hae ye?” she said, without looking up.
“Hoo kent ye it was me, Mistress Catanach?” asked the lad.
“Kent it was you!” she repeated. “Gien there be but twa feet at ance in ony street o’ Portlossie, I’ll tell ye whase heid’s abune them, an’ my een steekit (closed).”
“Hoot! ye’re a witch, Mistress Catanach!” said Malcolm merrily.
“That’s as may be,” she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously; “I hae tauld ye nae mair nor the trowth. But what garred ye whup ’s a’ oot o’ oor nakit beds by five o’clock i’ the mornin’, this mornin’, man! That’s no what ye’re paid for.”
“Deed, mem, it was jist a mistak’ o’ my puir daddy’s. He had been feart o’ sleepin’ ower lang, ye see, an’ sae had waukit ower sune. I was oot efter the fish mysel’.”
“But ye fired the gun ’gen the chap (before the stroke) o’ five.”
“Ow, ay! I fired the gun. The puir man wod hae bursten himsel’ gien I hadna.”
“Deil gien he had bursten himsel’—the auld heelan’ sholt!” exclaimed Mrs Catanach spitefully.