“There's been an oversicht aboot Jamie's legs, but there's naethin' wrang wi' his tongue,” and it was the general judgment that it did not “shachle.”
Jamie's gift of speech was much aided by eyes that were enough to redeem many defects in the under building. They were blue—not the soft azure of the South, but the steely colour of a Scottish loch in sunshine, with a north-east wind blowing—a keen, merciless, penetrating blue. It gave a shock to find them fastened on one when he did not know Jamie was paying any attention and they sobered him in an instant. Fallacies, cant, false sentiment, and every form of unreality shrivelled up before that gaze, and there were times one dared not emerge from the shelter of the multiplication table. He had a way of watching an eloquent stranger till the man's sentences fell to pieces and died away in murmurs before he said “Ay, ay,” that was very effective; and when he repeated this deliverance, after a pause of thirty seconds, even Whinnie understood that the kirkyard had been listening to nonsense.
It seems yesterday that Milton—who had come into the Glen a month before from Muirtown, and visited the two churches to detect errors for two months—was explaining the signs of true religion to the silent kirkyard, when he caught Jamie's eye and fell away into the weather, and the minister of Kildrummie's son, who was preaching for the doctor, and winding up his sermon with an incredible anecdote, came under the spell at the distance of the pulpit, and only saved himself by giving out a psalm. The man who passed Jamie's eye was true to the backbone, and might open his mouth in any place.
Every man requires room for the play of his genius, and it was generally agreed that Jamie, who had pricked many wind bags, came to his height in dealing with Milton.
“Milton wes faithfu' wi' ye in the third comin' up frae the Junction on Friday nicht, a'm hearin', Drumsheugh; the fouk say ye were that affeckit ye cud hardly gie yir ticket tae Peter.”
“He's the maist barefaced (impudent) wratch that's ever been seen in this Glen,” and Drumsheugh went at large; “he 'ill ask ye questions nae man hes ony richt tae pit tae neebur. An' a wakely cratur as weel, greetin' an' whinin' like a bairn.”
“A 'm astonished at ye,” said Jamie in grave rebuke, “an' you an elder. Ye sud be thankfu' sic a gude man hes come tae the pairish. There's naethin' but dry banes, he says, but he's ex-peckin' tae roose us afore he's dune.
“He's no feared, a 'll admit,” continued Jamie, “but a'm no sae sure that he 's wakely; ye didna hear o' him an' his pairtner in the cloth shop at Muirtown.”
The kirkyard thirsted for the news.
“Weel, ye see, the pairtner pit in five hun-dert, an' Milton pit in five, and they cairried on business for sax year thegither. They separated laist spring, an' Milton cam oot wi' a thoo sand an' the pairtner wi' naethin'.