He pulled himself up with all the appearance of a man about to make a lengthy statement; but instead of a speech he only succeeded in a pitiful pantomimic display. He could not remember what he had come to say. As if to stir up his dormant faculties he began rubbing his head with both hands, gathering his thick hair into shocks, and then scattering these asunder. While endeavouring to make hay of his hair in this manner, his little fierce eyes, like swivel-guns of exceedingly minute calibre, resumed firing their blank shots into space. Then, satisfied apparently that nothing could be done toward the tedding of his hair, he rubbed his shaved cheeks, beat his forehead and his breast, and tore at the fingers of both hands.
All at once he stood erect, and, as if he were resuming a train of thought, or a conversation, said, 'It's a wonnerfu' secret.'
'Indeed?' said Lee, quietly.
'Ay; for it can pit another in the deid man's shoes ye stann' in. But I was gaun tae dae it Englified. Ye micht check me when I gang wrang.'
'Check you when you go wrong?'
'That's it! "Go wrong"—no, "gang wrang." Keep me richt—right, will you, sir?'
'It's of no consequence to me, my good man,' replied Lee, 'whether you speak Englified as you call it, or not; but I'll keep you right if you like.'
'Thank you, thank you! But whaat——'
'What,' said Lee.
'Bide a wee, bide a wee!' cried Clacher, rubbing his hair.