“Is ’t ower lang a word, my lord?” asked Malcolm.
The marquis only smiled.
“I ken what ye mean. It’s a strange word in a fisher-lad’s mou’, ye think. But what for sudna a fisher-lad hae a smatterin’ o’ loagic, my lord? For Greek or Laitin there’s but sma’ opportunity o’ exerceese in oor pairts; but for loagic, a fisher-body may aye haud his han’ in that. He can aye be tryin’ ’t upo’ ’s wife, or ’s guid-mither, or upo’ ’s boat, or upo’ the fish whan they winna tak. Loagic wad save a heap o’ cursin’ an’ ill words—amo’ the fisher-fowk, I mean, my lord.”
“Have you been to college?”
“Na, my lord—the mair’s the pity! But I’ve been to the school sin’ ever I can min’.”
“Do they teach logic there?”
“A kin’ o’ ’t. Mr Graham sets us to try oor han’ whiles—jist to mak ’s a bit gleg (quick and keen), ye ken.”
“You don’t mean you go to school still?”
“I dinna gang reg’lar; but I gang as aften as Mr Graham wants me to help him, an’ I aye gether somethin’.”
“So it’s schoolmaster you are as well as fisherman? Two strings to your bow!—Who pays you for teaching?”