Mr. Sclater made no answer, waiting for her to turn and face him, which she did the sooner for his silence. Then she saw a man unknown to her—evidently, from his white neckcloth and funereal garments, a minister—standing solemn, with wide-spread legs, and round eyes of displeasure, expecting her attention.
“What’s yer wull, sir?” she repeated, with more respect, but less cordiality than at first.
“If you ask my will,” he replied, with some pomposity, for who that has just gained an object of ambition can be humble?—“it is that you shut up this whisky shop, and betake yourself to a more decent way of life in my parish.”
“My certie! but ye’re no blate (over-modest) to craw sae lood i’ my hoose, an’ that’s a nearer fit nor a perris!” she cried, flaring up in wrath both at the nature and rudeness of the address. “Alloo me to tell ye, sir, ye’re the first ’at ever daured threep my hoose was no a dacent ane.”
“I said nothing about your house. It was your shop I spoke of,” said the minister, not guiltless of subterfuge.
“An’ what’s my chop but my hoose? Haith! my hoose wad be o’ fell sma’ consideration wantin’ the chop. Tak ye heed o’ beirin’ fause witness, sir.”
“I said nothing, and know nothing, against yours more than any other shop for the sale of drink in my parish.”
“The Lord’s my shepherd! Wad ye even (compare) my hoose to Jock Thamson’s or Jeemie Deuk’s, baith i’ this perris?”
“My good woman,—”
“Naither better nor waur nor my neepers,” interrupted Mistress Croale, forgetting what she had just implied: “a body maun live.”