“I kend your father weel; he’s a good cannie man.”
“I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye maybe wadna hae said sae muckle for him.”
“Ay, it’s weel o’ you to say sae; but he’s a douse, respectable man, and he’s no disgraced in his son.”
Barnaby rose with his bicker in his hand; gave it a graceful swing, as a gentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set down Nimrod his share of the paritch.
When they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg went into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much splashing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to herself, and was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was forthcoming. She cast her eyes towards the laird’s house, then looked up the water, then down, in case any one might be angling on it; and after perceiving that there was nobody within a mile of them, she spoke as follows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest any one should overhear her.
“Gude sauf us to the day, Barny man! What think ye o’ our laird?”
“Very muckle. I think him a decent worthy lad.”
“Decent! Shame fa’ his decency!—I watna what will be countit undecent soon! Sae ye haena heard o’ his shamfu’ connection wi’ the bit prodigal, dinnagood lassie, that was here?”
“Never.”