“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing with,” said I.
“Ah, but I’ll no’ tell ye that,” said Andie.
“Little need when I ken,” was my retort.
“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, Shaws,” says Andie. “And that is that (try as ye please) I’m no’ dealing wi’ yoursel’; nor yet I amna goin’ to,” he added.
“Well, Andie, I see I’ll have to speak out plain with you,” I replied. And I told him so much as I thought needful of the facts.
He heard me out with serious interest, and when I had done, seemed to consider a little with himself.
“Shaws,” said he at last, “I’ll deal with the naked hand. It’s a queer tale, and no’ very creditable, the way you tell it; and I’m far frae minting that is other than the way that ye believe it. As for yoursel’, ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit in the job than what ye can dae. And here is the maitter clear and plain to ye. There’ll be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far frae that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll be nae skaith to the kintry—just ae mair Hielantman hangit—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On the ither hand, it would be considerable skaith to me if I would let you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that I think ye’ll just have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the solans.”
“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s innocent.”
“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see, in this warld, the way God made it, we canna just get a’thing that we want.”