The nicknames by which Dan had formerly been distinguished were, after the affair of the ducklings, dropt entirely out of use, and he was thereafter spoken of as “Braidnebs,” although none could use it in his hearing with impunity.
Thomas Scott, the farmer of Babbie’s Mill, a forward ill-bred man, was speaking in the market to Mr. Taylor, the elder already referred to in these “Bits.” Dan chanced to pass near them, and the miller said, loud enough for him and the most of the folks about the cross to hear him, “Braidnebs or no’ braidnebs, the game’s there onyway.”
Dan scowled at the miller, and tried to suppress his rage. In his own words, “I tried to steek[20] my mouth, but there was a rattlin’ in my throat like to choke me. I lookit at Mr. Taylor. He kent,[21] ’deed a’body kent, that the miller’s wife was a yammerin’[22] petted cat, an’ I said, ‘Maister Taylor, there’s a big bubblyjock[23] gangs about Babbie’s Mill yonder, but he’s dabbit[24] to death wi’ a hen.’”
[20] Shut.
[21] Knew.
[22] Grumbling.
[23] Turkey-cock.
[24] Pecked.
Poor “Babbie’s Mill” was well known to be “hen-pecked” at home, and the laugh was so cleverly, so deservedly, so daringly turned against him, that he was nonplussed for a little; but he screwed up his courage, and tried to look disdainfully at Dan. Dan’s single eye was glaring at him, and the blank socket of his other eye was twitching nervously. The miller looked bold, and said: “Go about your business, ye ill-tongued scoundrel!”
“Ye what?” shrieked Dan, going close up to the miller, who stept back and tried to move off; but Dan followed him closely, and poured out, in a voice compounded of bawling, howling, and hissing, whilst all the while his arm moved quickly up and down: “What did ye say?—ill-tongued? Wha has as ill a tongue as yoursel’, if it be na your wife? Ye’ll daur to insult a man in the middle o’ the street that wasna meddlin’ wi’ you, an’ then speak o’ him being ill-tongued! Gae hame to Babbie’s Mill an ‘clapper’ there like yer auld mill, an’ tak’ double ‘mouters’[25] out o’ ither folk’s sacks to fill yer ain. Ye’re no’ mealy-mooed [mouthed] though ye’re a miller; dicht the stour aff your ain tongue before ye try to mend ither folks. You should be the last man to ca’ onybody a scoundrel; them that meets ye in the market wad think butter wadna melt in yer mouth, but let them gang to Babbie’s Mill an’ they’ll find ye can chew gey hard beans. What d’ye think o’ that, Babbie? Wha has the sharpest neb noo? Whare’s the game now? I think I’ve broken your spurs an’ toozled[26] yer feathers. Gang hame an’ cower in the corner an’ get dabbit, Babbie. Ye’re weel ca’d Babbie—ye’re just a big babbie—’at are ye; an’ if ye never kent that afore, ye ken noo, onyway.”