“Ay!” said Janet, in a low voice, “the live stanes maun come to the live rock to bigg the hoose ’at’ll stan’.”
“What think ye, Maister Fergus, you ’at’s gauin’ to be a minister?” said Robert, referring to his wife’s words, as the young man looked in at the door of the kitchen.
“Lat him be,” interposed his father, blowing his nose with unnecessary violence; “setna him preachin’ afore ’s time. Fess the whusky, Fergus, an’ gie auld Robert a dram. Haith! gien the watter be rinnin’ ower the tap o’ yer hoose, man, it was time to flit. Fess twa or three glaisses, Fergus; we hae a’ need o’ something ’at’s no watter. It’s perfeckly ridic’lous!”
Having taken a little of the whisky, the old people went to change their clothes for some Jean had provided, and in the mean time she made up her fire, and prepared some breakfast for them.
“An’ whaur’s yer dummie?” she asked, as they re-entered the kitchen.
“He had puir Crummie to luik efter,” answered Janet; “but he micht hae been in or this time.”
“He’ll be wi’ Donal i’ the byre, nae doobt,” said Jean: “he’s aye some shy o’ comin’ in wantin’ an inveet.” She went to the door, and called with a loud voice across the yard, through the wind and the clashing torrents, “Donal, sen’ Dummie in till ’s brakfast.”
“He’s awa till ’s sheep,” cried Donal in reply.
“Preserve ’s!—the cratur ’ll be lost!” said Jean.
“Less likly nor ony man aboot the place,” bawled Donal, half angry with his mistress for calling his friend dummie. “Gibbie kens better what he’s aboot nor ony twa ’at thinks him a fule ’cause he canna lat oot sic stuff an’ nonsense as they canna haud in.”