“‘It’s a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay!’ simpered the stranger. His air was that of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on the weather with his laird.
“Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens.
“‘Is that your opinion?’ said he. ‘I fail to see ’t mysel’.…’
“The stranger laughed, a little deprecating giggle. ‘I meant it was fine weather for the fields,’ he explained.…
“‘Are you a farmer, then?’ Gourlay nipped in, with his eye on the white waistcoat.
“‘Oh—oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi—hi! I’m not a farmer. I daresay, now, you have no mind of me!’
“‘No,’ said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with his dark eyes. ‘I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of remembering you!’
“‘Man, I’m a son of auld John Wilson of Brigabee!’
“‘Oh, auld Wilson, the mole-catcher!’ said contemptuous Gourlay. ‘What’s this they christened him now? “Toddling Johnnie,” was it noat?’