"Jock McCleggan, sir."
"Who is he?"
"Just Jock, sir: a man that lives off and on here-abouts."
"Oh," said the doctor, understanding perfectly well that Jock was a moonshiner; "and what business have you with a rascal like that?"
"He knew my feyther, sir, and he's been saying to me these many days that it was agreed between 'em I was to 'bide with him when my feyther died. It's a lee, sir; my feyther never said it."
"He'd better not show his face to me again," said the doctor. "I'll horsewhip him."
Conny suddenly pulled a crumpled bit of paper from his bosom and showed it to the doctor, saying,
"He brought me that just the morning."
The doctor read:
"To Mr. Jock McCleggin,—i want yu tu tak mi sun Cony tu du as if he was yure one. i mene wen i am ded."