“Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn more sense.”
I left her mails for the moment in an inn upon the shore, where I got a direction for Sprott’s house in my new French, and we walked there—it was some little way—beholding the place with wonder as we went. Indeed, there was much for Scots folk to admire: canals and trees being intermingled with the houses; the houses, each within itself, of a brave red brick, the colour of a rose, with steps and benches of blue marble at the cheek of every door, and the whole town so clean you might have dined upon the causeway. Sprott was within, upon his ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat and clean, and set out with china and pictures and a globe of the earth in a brass frame. He was a big-chafted, ruddy, lusty man, with a crooked hard look to him; and he made us not that much civility as offer us a seat.
“Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” says I.
“I ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient-like.
“Since you are so particular,” says I, “I will amend my question, and ask you where we are to find in Helvoet one James Drummond, alias Macgregor, alias James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?”
“Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my part I wish he was.”
“The young lady is that gentleman’s daughter, sir,” said I, “before whom, I think you will agree with me, it is not very becoming to discuss his character.”
“I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!” cries he in his gross voice.
“Under your favour, Mr. Sprott,” said I, “this young lady is come from Scotland seeking him, and, by whatever mistake, was given the name of your house for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I think this places both you and me—who am but her fellow-traveller by accident—under a strong obligation to help our countrywoman.”
“Will you ding me daft?” he cries. “I tell ye I ken naething and care less either for him or his breed. I tell ye the man owes me money.”