“That was ill-dune, Rob Dow,” Wearyworld said, picking himself up leisurely.
“I’m thinking it was weel-dune,” snarled Rob.
“Ay,” said Wearyworld, “we needna quarrel about a difference o’ opeenion; but, Rob——”
Dow, however, had already entered the house and slammed the door.
“Ay, ay,” muttered Wearyworld, departing, “you micht hae stood still, Rob, and argued it out wi’ me.”
In less than an hour after his conversation with Jean at the window it had suddenly struck Haggart that the minister she spoke of must be Mr. Dishart. In two hours he had confided his suspicions to Chirsty. In ten minutes she had filled the house with gossips. Rob arrived to find them in full cry.
“Ay, Rob,” said Chirsty, genially, for gossip levels ranks, “you’re just in time to hear a query about the minister.”
“Rob,” said the Glen Quharity post, from whom I subsequently got the story, “Mr. Dishart has fallen in—in—what do you call the thing, Chirsty?”
Birse knew well what the thing was called, but the word is a staggerer to say in company.