“Nae doubt, sir—I’m no misdoubtin’ ye, and to say the truth ye profess weel. I’ve read yer address, sir, and I like yer principles—they’re the stench auld Whig anes—keep a’ we can to ourselves, and haud a gude grup. But wha’s bringing ye forrard? Wha signed yer requisition? No the Kittleweem folk, I hope?—that wad be a sair thing against ye.”
“Why, no—certainly not. The fact is, Mr Binkie, that I have not seen the requisition. Its contents were communicated by a third party, on whom I have the most perfect reliance; and as I understood there was some delicacy in the matter, I did not think it proper to insist upon a sight of the signatures.”
The Provost gave a long whistle.
“I see it noo!” he said; “I see it! I ken’t there was something gaun on forbye the common. Ye’re a lucky man, Mr Dunshunner, and ye’re election is as sure as won. Ye’ve been spoken to by them ye ken o’!”
“Upon my word, I do not understand—”
“Ay—ay! Ye’re richt to be cautious. Weel I wat they are kittle cattle to ride the water on. But wha was’t, sir,—wha was’t? Ye needna be feared of me. I ken how to keep a secret.”
“Really, Mr Binkie, except through a third party, as I have told you already, I have had no communication with any one.”
“Weel—they are close—there’s nae denyin’ that. But ye surely maun hae some inkling o’ the men—Them that’s ahint the screen, ye ken?”
“Indeed, I have not. But stay—if you allude to the Clique——”
“Wheest, sir, wheest!” cried the Provost, in an agitated tone of voice. “Gudesake, tak care what ye say—ye dinna ken wha may hear ye. Ye hae spoken a word that I havena heard this mony a day without shaking in my shoon. Aye speak ceevily o’ the deil—ye dinna ken how weel ye may be acquaunt!”