“He may have repented, you know,” said Mrs Courthope feebly, finding herself in less room than was comfortable.
“In sic case,” returned Malcolm, “the auld man ’ill hear a’ aboot it the meenit he wins there; an’ I mak nae doobt he’ll du his best to perswaud himsel’.”
“But what if he shouldn’t get there?” persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence.
“Hoot toot, mem! I wonner to hear ye! A Cawmill latten in, an’ my gran’father hauden oot! That wad be jist yallow-faced Willie ower again![3]—Na, na; things gang anither gait up there. My gran’father’s a rale guid man, for a’ ’at he has a wye o’ luikin’ at things ’at’s mair efter the law nor the gospel.”
[3] Lord Stair, the prime mover in the Massacre of Glenco.
Apparently Mrs Courthope had come at length to the conclusion that Malcolm was as much of a heathen as his grandfather, for in silence she chose her fish, in silence paid him his price, and then with only a sad Good-day, turned and left him.
He would have gone back by the river-side to the sea-gate, but Mrs Courthope having waived her right to the fish in favour of Mrs Catanach, he felt bound to give her another chance, and so returned the way he had come.
“Here’s yer troot, Mistress Cat’nach,” he called aloud at her door, which generally stood a little ajar. “Ye s’ hae ’t for the saxpence —an’ a guid bargain tu, for ane o’ sic dimensions!”
As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor’s gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon-trout was snatched from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile-looking mongrel, with hair like an ill-used door-mat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate.
“That’s richt, my bairn!” shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute as he ran: “tak it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi’ my compliments.”