“Will ye forgie me? It was me that hunted the bull that I thocht had killed ye.”
“You, ye vagabond!” said M‘Harrigle, collaring the unhappy youth. Cleekum seized the opportunity of running off, rightly considering that he had carried the joke far beyond the bounds of discretion, and really apprehensive that the evil spirit he had conjured up would turn upon himself and rend him in its fury. “You!” continued the irascible cattle-dealer; “what do ye think that ye deserve, you ill-gi’en neer-do-weel? But I’ll mak your father pay.”
This last consideration loosened his grasp, and he seized the dominie’s hands with both his own, begged a thousand pardons with a rueful countenance, and in accents very different from his former imprecatory addresses. During the time that he was making this sincere and penitent apology for his rudeness and misconduct, he several times glanced round the apartment for Cleekum, crying out, “Where is that blackguard scribe? It was him that did it a’.” He was safe, however.
“There’s nae harm done where there’s nae ill meant,” said the dominie, in reply to M‘Harrigle’s confession of repentance; “only ye shouldna flee on a body like an ill-bred tyke, when an ill-disposed neebour cries ‘shoo’ to ye. Dinna ye be ower ready in telling your mind to anybody, but let your thoughts cool as weel as your parritch.”
“’Od, Simon,” rejoined the cattle-dealer, “I am sure ye can hardly forgie me for the ill-faured words I hae said to ye the night; I wish I could forget and forgie them mysel. I’m a wild brier o’ a body; I’m aye into some confounded hobbleshow or anither. But I’m glad, man, I didna lay hands on ye, for if I had I wad ne’er hae forgi’en mysel for’t as lang as I live. Can I do naething to mak amends to ye for what I’ve done?”
“Naething at a’,” replied the dominie, “but to settle as easily as ye can wi’ the laddie’s father.”
“Peradventure,” Mr Singleheart suggested, “the youth may be released from his captivity, and sent to the habitation of his father.”
“There’ll be twa ways o’ that faith!” exclaimed Grierson. “Na, na, though the hangman has lost a job, I’ll be paid for my trouble. I dinna gang about beating bushes for linties, for deil-belickit but the pleasure o’ seeing them fleein’ back again. I’ll cage him. Ye’re a’ ready enough to wind a hank aff a neebour’s reel, or tak a nievefu’ out o’ his pock neuk, but ne’er a ane o’ ye’ll gie a duddy loon ae thread to mend his breeks, or a hungry beggar a handfu’ o’ meal to haud his wame frae stickin’ to his back bane.”
“There,” said M‘Harrigle, tossing down a small sum of money as a bribe to stop the mouth of this snarling terrier of the law, “tak that, and save the parish the expense o’ buying you a tether.”
Grierson picked up the money and departed, leaving behind him as tokens of his displeasure, some muttered and unintelligible growlings; and the boy was set at liberty, and sent home to his father.