“James M‘Intosh and John Burnet,” was the reply.
“Blue coat and grey trousers,” muttered the Superintendent, as he looked at the paper—“blue coat and grey trousers,” he repeated, as he glanced at M‘Sally. “Monkey jacket and buff vest,” looking again at the paper—“monkey jacket and buff vest,” directing his eyes to Stewart.
“We have been travelling all day, sir,” said Stewart, “and are weary; please pass us on.”
But the Superintendent was in no hurry.
“Grey eyes and foxey whiskers,” he muttered, again getting more curious, as he read and looked, and looked and read, still going over features—“sharp nose, grey eyes, fiery-coloured whiskers—dark eyes and black whiskers”—and so forth, until at last he came to the conclusion—“the very men.”
“Yes,” he said, as he rose and touched a small bell, “I will pass you, but not to the town-hall of Berwick.”
“Any other quarters for poor destitutes will do, sir,” said Stewart.
“What think you of the police-office of Edinburgh,” said the Superintendent, “where you, Hector M‘Sally and Joseph Stewart, are, according to this paper I have in my hands, and which I got just as you entered, charged with breaking into a house in Minto Street, and another in Claremont Crescent, and stealing therefrom many valuable articles.”
“We are not the men,” said the two, determinedly.
“Read your paper again, sir,” said M‘Sally, “and compare, and you’ll find we are not the men.”