A short squat man, with an oleaginous face and remarkably bushy eyebrows, was in the act of weighing out a pennyworth of “sweeties” to a little girl as I entered.
“Is the Provost of Dreepdaily within?” asked I.
“I’se warrant he’s that,” was the reply; “Hae, my dear, there’s a sugar almond t’ye into the bargain. Gae your waus hame noo, and tell your mither that I’ve some grand new tea. Weel, sir, what was you wanting?”
“I wish particularly to speak to the Provost.”
“Weel then, speak awa’,” and he straightway squatted himself before his ledger.
“I beg your pardon, sir! Have I really the honour of addressing—”
“Walter Binkie, the Provost of this burgh. But if ye come on Council matters, ye’re lang ahint the hour. I’m just steppin’ up to denner, and I never do business after that.”
“But perhaps you will allow me—”
“I will allow nae man, sir, to interrupt my leisure. If ye’re wanting onything, gang to the Town-Clerk.”
“Permit me one moment—my name is Dunshunner.”