“Eh, what!” cried the Provost, bounding from his stool, “speak lower or the lad will hear ye. Are ye the gentleman that’s stannin’ for the burrows?”
“The same.”
“Lord-sake! what for did ye no say that afore? Jims! I say, Jims! Look after the shop! Come this way, sir, up the stair, and take care ye dinna stumble on that toom cask o’ saut.”
I followed the Provost up a kind of corkscrew stair, until we emerged upon a landing-place in his own proper domicile. We entered the dining-room. It was showily furnished; with an enormous urn of paper roses in the grate, two stuffed parroquets upon the mantelpiece, a flamingo-coloured carpet, enormous worsted bell-pulls, and a couple of portraits by some peripatetic follower of Vandyke, one of them representing the Provost in his civic costume, and the other bearing some likeness to a fat female in a turban, with a cairngorm brooch about the size of a platter on her breast, and no want of carmine on the space dedicated to the cheeks.
The Provost locked the door, and then clapped his ear to the key-hole. He next approached the window, drew down the blinds so as effectually to prevent any opposite scrutiny, and motioned me to a seat.
“And so ye’re Mr Dunshunner?” said he. “Oh man, but I’ve been wearyin’ to see you!”
“Indeed! you flatter me very much.”
“Nae flattery, Mr Dunshunner—nane! I’m a plain honest man, that’s a’, and naebody can say that Wattie Binkie has blawn in their lug. And sae ye’re comin’ forrard for the burrows? It’s a bauld thing, sir—a bauld thing, and a great honour ye seek. No that I think ye winna do honour to it, but it’s a great trust for sae young a man; a heavy responsibility, as a body may say, to hang upon a callant’s shouthers.”
“I hope, Mr Binkie, that my future conduct may show that I can at least act up to my professions.”