“He’ll be yin o’ the Ayrshire folk. He used to rin horses at the Paisley races.”
(“The devil he did!” thought I.)
“D’ye ken ony o’ the directors, Jimsy?”
“I ken Sawley fine. Ye may depend on’t, it’s a gude thing if he’s in’t, for he’s a howkin’ body.”
“Then it’s sure to gae up. What prem. d’ye think it will bring?”
“Twa pund a share, and maybe mair.”
“’Od, I’ll apply for three hundred!”
“Heaven bless you, my dear countrymen!” thought I as I sallied forth to refresh myself with a basin of soup, “do but maintain this liberal and patriotic feeling—this thirst for national improvement, internal communication, and premiums—a short while longer, and I know whose fortune will be made.”
On the following morning my breakfast-table was covered with shoals of letters, from fellows whom I scarcely ever had spoken to—or who, to use a franker phraseology, had scarcely ever condescended to speak to me—entreating my influence as a director to obtain them shares in the new undertaking. I never bore malice in my life, so I chalked them down, without favouritism, for a certain proportion. Whilst engaged in this charitable work, the door flew open, and M‘Corkindale, looking utterly haggard with excitement, rushed in.