“Weel, man,” returned Hawkie, “I admit baith; but for a’ that I ne’er got what paid the collector decently.”
“I have myself something to do with collecting accounts, Hawkie, but if your rates are as difficult to call in as my accounts are, you must have battle enough in your profession?”
“Oh, man, you’re no up to your business. Ye’re but a green hand. I could learn you to get your accounts! I ca’ in accounts regularly whaur there’s naething awin’ to me.”
“Hae, Hawkie,” said one of his almoners, “there’s a penny to you, and gae awa’, man, and get your beard ta’en aff; ye micht draw lint through’t for a heckle, I’m perfectly ashamed to see you gaun about like a Jew.”
“Oh!” replied Hawkie, “but you forget, freend, that it disna suit a beggar to be bare-faced.”
“I shall endeavour to provoke Hawkie into retort,” said a gentleman who was well known to the wit, to a friend. And passing the beggar, with head turned away to avoid recognition, he remarked, in a voice sufficiently audible, “He’s a perfect blackguard and impostor, that Hawkie. He should be sent to Bridewell!”
“Hech, man,” retorted Hawkie, “you’re the only neebour-like person I hae seen the day.”
“What will you charge to teach me the profession of begging, Hawkie?” inquired one.
“Man, ye couldna come to a better hand for your education,” replied Hawkie; “and I’ll just tak’ ye on the terms the poor weavers used to tak’ their apprentices; I’ll gie you the half o’ your winning.”