“And whereon does that wise saw bear? What relation has that to the seeing of a ghost? Confess then, this instant, that you have forged and vended a deliberate lie.”
“Indeed, sir, I hae muckle reason to be thankfu’—”
“For what?”
“That I never tauld a deliberate lie in my life. My late master came and spoke to me in the stable; but whether it was his ghaist or himself—a good angel or a bad ane—I hae reason to be thankfu’ I never said; for I do—not—ken.”
“Now, pray let us hear from that sage tongue of yours, so full of sublime adages, what this doubtful being said to you?”
“I wad rather be excused, an’ it were your honour’s will, and wad hae reason to be thankfu’.”
“And why should you decline telling this?”
“Because I ken ye wadna believe a word o’t, it is siccan a strange story. O, sirs, but folks hae muckle reason to be thankful that they are as they are!”
“Well, out with this strange story of yours. I do not promise to credit it, but shall give it a patient hearing, providing you swear that there is no forgery in it.”
“Weel, as I was suppering the horses the night, I was dressing my late kind master’s favourite mare, and I was just thinking to mysel, an’ he had been leeving, I wadna hae been my lane the night, for he wad hae been standing ower me, cracking his jokes, and swearing at me in his good-natured hamely way. Ay, but he’s gane to his lang account, thinks I, and we puir frail dying creatures that are left ahint, hae muckle reason to be thankfu’ that we are as we are; when I looks up, and behold there’s my auld master standing leaning against the trivage as he used to do, and looking at me. I canna but say my heart was a little astoundit, and maybe lap up through my midriff into my breath-bellows—I couldna say; but in the strength o’ the Lord I was enabled to retain my senses for a good while. ‘John Broadcast,’ said he, with a deep angry tone,—‘John Broadcast, what the d—l are you thinking about? You are not currying that mare half. What lubberly way of dressing a horse is that?’