“How as you are?”
“That we are nae stocks or stanes, or brute beasts, as the minister o’ Traquair says. But I hope in God there is nae siccan a thing about my master’s place as an unearthly visitor.”
The smith shook his head, and uttered a long hem! hem! hem! He had felt the powerful effect of that himself, and wished to make the same appeal to the feelings and longings after information of John Broadcast. The bait took; for the latent spark of superstition was kindled in the heart of honest John, and there being no wit in the head to counteract it, the portentous hint had its full sway. John’s eyes stelled in his head, and his visage grew long, assuming meanwhile something of the hue of dried clay in winter.
“Hech, man! but that’s an awsome story,” exclaimed he. “Folks hae great reason to be thankfu’ that they are as they are. It is truly an awsome story.”
“Ye ken, it just beats the world for that,” rejoined the smith.
“And is it really thought that this laird made away wi’ our auld maister?” said John.
The smith shook his head again, and gave a straight wink with his eyes.
“Weel, I hae great reason to be thankfu’ that I never heard siccan a story as that!” said John. “Wha was it tauld you a’ about it?”
“It was nae less a man than our mathewmatical dominie,” said the smith, “he that kens a’ things, and can prove a proposition to the nineteenth part of a hair. But he is terrified lest the tale should spread; and therefore ye maunna say a word about it.”
“Na, na; I hae great reason to be thankfu’ I can keep a secret as weel as the maist part of men, and better than the maist part of women. What did he say? Tell us a’ that he said.”