“I do not understand you, Mr. MacLear!” answered James with dignity.
“Na, ye canna! Gien ye could, ye wouldna be sae comfortable as ye seem!”
“I cannot think, Mr. MacLear, why you should be rude to me!”
“Gien ye saw the hoose on fire aboot a man deid asleep, maybe ye micht be in ower great a hurry to be polite til ’im!” remarked the soutar.
“Dare you suggest, sir, that I have been drinking?” cried the parson.
“Not for a single moment, sir; and I beg yer pardon for causin ye so to mistak me: I do not believe, sir, ye war ever ance owertaen wi’ drink in a’ yer life! I fear I’m jist ower ready to speyk in parables, for it’s no a’body that can or wull un’erstan’ them! But the last time ye left me upo’ this same stule, it was wi’ that cry o’ the Apostle o’ the Gentiles i’ my lug—‘Wauk up, thoo that sleepest!’ For even the deid wauk whan the trumpet blatters i’ their lug!”
“It seems to me that there the Apostle makes allusion to the condition of the Gentile nations, asleep in their sins! But it may apply, doubtless, to the conversion of any unbelieving man from the error of his ways.”
“Weel,” said the soutar, turning half round, and looking the minister full in the face, “are ye convertit, sir? Or are ye but turnin frae side to side i’ yer coffin—seekin a sleepin assurance that ye’re waukin?”
“You are plain-spoken anyway!” said the minister, rising.
“Maybe I am at last, sir! And maybe I hae been ower lang in comin to that same plainness! Maybe I was ower feart for yer coontin me ill-fashiont—what ye ca’ rude!”