"Really, sir," said the younger of the two, "I have not the courage to do so unjust an action of myself."
"Haud yere tongue, and write what I dictate, then, sir—wha's first? Ay, Mr Wanderson. Let me see—an IHL hinge, a negro lock, and a bottle of blister flies, to Mr Wanderson. He's always giving poor people help and medicine, and he'll ne'er notice them. Wha's neist?"
"The custos, sir."
"Ay, the custos," said the voice; "a jovial chiel is his honour—so, so—just clap doon, item, twa pawtent corkscrews. He's no very muckle gien to payin', but ne'er mind—I'll screw it out o' him in rum and plantains." And here the creature laughed an "eldritch laugh," sounding more like keck, keck, keck, than any common cachinnation. "Wha's neist?"
"Jolliffe and Backhouse."
"Ay, braw English lads are they baith; leeberal chiels, and fond o' guid eating—clap a round o' Jew beef on the tap o' their saydel.—Keck, keck, keck. Wha's neist?"
"Skinflint and Peasemeal, sir."
"Bah—nasty Scotch bodies" (and what may you be, thought I); "and weel I wot I would be glad to saydel them—keck, keck—but they'll no be fitted that gate, I trow—they are owre gleg; sell them a loose, and if he wanted a leg or the fud—my certie, let abee findin' it oot, they wad plea it afore they payed it—sae pass them ower. But wait awee—I am loath to let Skinflint escape after aw. Hoo mony grunstanes did their cart ca' for the other day?"
"Two dozen, sir."
"Twa dizzen—twa dizzen grunstanes, did ye say?—herd ony mortal the like o' that—four-and-twenty grunstanes! What can they do wi' sae mony? they maun surely mack soup o' them, or feed their negers wi' them, or maybe they grind their noses on them, ay, that'll be it—keck, keck—Did you send an invoice wi' the cart, Saunders?"