“Wait there, my good woman,” said I, “till I bring you your property and the thief.”
And upon the instant there arose a cry of, “Hurra for M‘Levy,” which I received with becoming modesty.
So away I went back the road I had come; nor did I diverge till I came to the house of Mrs M‘Lachlan, who sold beer and whisky to be consumed and to consume on the premises, where, in a room, surrounded by some of his own tribe, who should have been at the marriage, I discovered Bill Orr, with his own stoup before him, in all the confidence of security, and in all the joy of his fourpence-halfpenny.
“What was your hurry, Bill, when you fell?” said I. “You haven’t told me that yet.”
“Perhaps to get to this jug of ale in a cold night,” replied the rogue.
“No,” said I; “you wanted away from the poor old pensioner whom you robbed of fourpence-halfpenny.”
Bill was choked with the truth.
“Mrs M‘Lachlan,” continued I, “has Bill paid for his stoup?”
“Ay, I never trust till the ale’s drunk,” replied she; “for sometimes it taks awa’ the memory, and they get confused, and say they paid afore.”
“A penny the stoup?”