“What’s this?” says he. “This is nae kind of time of night for decent folk; and I hae nae trokings[[34]] wi’ night-hawks. What brings ye here? I have a blunderbush.”
[34] Dealings.
“Is that yoursel’, Mr. Balfour?” returned Alan, stepping back and looking up into the darkness. “Have a care of that blunderbuss; they’re nasty things to burst.”
“What brings ye here? and whae are ye?” says my uncle, angrily.
“I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the country-side,” said Alan; “but what brings me here is another story, being more of your affair than mine; and if ye’re sure it’s what ye would like, I’ll set it to a tune and sing it to you.”
“And what is’t?” asked my uncle.
“David,” says Alan.
“What was that?” cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.
“Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?” said Alan.
There was a pause; and then, “I’m thinking I’ll better let ye in,” says my uncle, doubtfully.