The waiter, encouraged by seeing the portmanteau left behind, graciously complied. The youth’s appearance was frank and prepossessing, and the waiter at the George was a good-humoured fellow, so he extended his courtesy so far as to look out upon the idlers round the door—it was the evening of the market-day—and ask,—
“Is there ony of you gaun the road to Mossgray?”
John Brown, Mrs Fendie’s factotum, was within hearing. He had been down making purchases at the market, and now, with his light cart moderately well filled, was about starting home. On hearing the question, he responded briskly,—
“Ay, I’m gaun to the Mount—wha’s speiring?”
“Is’t you, John Brown?” said the waiter; “there’s a gentleman here, a stranger, that disna ken the road. He’s gaun to Mossgray.”
“If he’s a decent lad,” said the authoritative John, “I’ll gie him a hurl if he likes; and if he’s no a decent lad, or if he’s ower proud to ride in a cart, if he can keep up wi’ the powny, I’ll let him see the road.”
The stranger laughed, and having, as it seemed, no particular scruples of pride, sprang lightly up on the front of John’s cart, and thanked him for the promised “hurl.” It was a very frosty, chill night; John somewhat gruffly threw one of the rough home-made plaids, of which he had been making a cushion for himself, over the knees of the newcomer.
“Ye’ll ken the Laird?” said John, as they emerged out of the Main Street.
“No—at least I have never seen him,” said the young man.
John uttered a discontented “humph,” and changed his tactics.