“Miss Jane. She’s a niece, they say, of old Smith—Ben-na-Groich, I means; but I don’t b’lieve it. She’s a real lady, and no mistake; and, they say, will have a prodigious fortin. By dad, our old ’ooman takes prodigious care of her, and is always a snubbing.”
“My dear Copus, say not a word of having seen me; you can be the greatest friend I ever had in my life—you’ll help me?”
“Won’t I?—that’s all;—’clect all about Oriel, Mr Harry, and Brussels? Ah! them was glorious days!”
“We shall have better days yet, Copus, never fear.”
After a few minutes’ conversation, the face of affairs entirely changed. An apology was made by his lordship in person for the mistake of his servant; that individual was severely reprimanded, greatly to the satisfaction of Mr Copus; the two greys were peaceably yoked to the plain chariot, and Jock Brown cracked his whip and trotted off at a pace that set loose the tongues of all the dogs in the village.
“What a barbarous set of people these Lowlanders are!” exclaimed the senior lady—“so different from the brave and noble mountaineers. My brother, the chieftain, is lucky in having such a splendid set of retainers, and the tartan he invented is very becoming.”
“Vell, only to think of picking up my old master in a inn-yard!” murmured Mr Copus, resuming his old position, and fixing his guarding arm once more inside of the rumble-rail; “after all the rum goes we had together at Oxford and Brussels. Nothing couldn’t be luckier than meeting a old friend among them Scotch savages. Do ye know, Mariar, they haven’t no breeches?”
“For shame, Mr Copus!”