“Its mair nor she’s weel deservan’,” said Morag, now putting forth all her strength to pull the sack and its contents up out of the water; “but Morag canna let a man be trooned an she can help it, pad man so she pe.”
Having hauled up the sack, she laid it upon the grass, undid the fastenings of its mouth, and, with some difficulty, extricated Mr. Dallas from its durance vile. The worthy packman arose to his feet, and, shaking himself heartily, and stretching out first his short, and then his long leg, two or three times alternately, to relieve that killing cold cramp which possessed them, he hobbled off without uttering a word of thanks, and shivering so, that his teeth were rattling in his head, as if his jaws had contained a corps of drummers, beating the rogue’s march. Morag looked after him with a hearty laugh, and then picking up the wet sack, she hastened to join her mistress.
Let us now follow the march of John Smith.
[1] A Scottish farmer’s house and offices. [↑]
COMFORTS OF A LONDON CLUB-HOUSE.
Author.—Pray, stop for one moment, Mr. Macpherson, if you please. Let me throw a few more peats on the fire. With the rain still beating thus without, and the picture of the half-drowned shivering chapman brought so vividly before our mind’s eyes by your description, we shall have our teeth rattling in our jaws from very sympathy, if we don’t keep up the caloric we have already generated.
Grant.—It is right not to allow it to be too much reduced, certainly. But I declare I am as comfortable here in Inchrory, as if I were in my club-house in London.