'Indeed, he's all that, and more too,' said the school-master.
'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo!' said MacGregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger.
'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm.'
'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the bleachgreen yet.'
'She doesna weir cotton sarks,' growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu!'
Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon the conversation with intent.
'Ye haena telt 's yet, Cocker,' he said, 'what that maister o' yours is duin' here at this time o' the year. I wad ken that, gin ye please.'
'How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?' returned the factor, taking no notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put.
'He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Algerine pirates 'at Lord Exmooth's het the hips o'—and that's my opingon.'
'He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor,' said the banker. 'Ye micht jist lat him lie.'