“‘Lord make us thankfu’, master,’ says I; ‘are you there?’
“‘Where else would you have me be at this hour of the night, old blockhead?’ says he.
“‘In another hame than this, master,’ says I; ‘but I fear it is nae good ane, that ye are sae soon tired o’t.’
“‘A d—d bad one, I assure you,’ says he.
“‘Ay, but master,’ says I, ‘ye hae muckle reason to be thankfu’ that ye are as ye are.’
“‘In what respect, dotard?’ says he.
“‘That ye hae liberty to come out o’t a start now and then to get the air,’ says I; and oh, my heart was sair for him when I thought o’ his state! And though I was thankfu’ that I was as I was, my heart and flesh began to fail me, at thinking of my speaking face to face wi’ a being frae the unhappy place. But out he breaks again wi’ a great round o’ swearing, about the mare being ill-keepit; and he ordered me to cast my coat and curry her weel, for he had a lang journey to take on her the morn.
“‘You take a journey on her!’ says I; ‘I doubt my new master will dispute that privilege wi’ you, for he rides her himsel the morn.’
“‘He ride her!’ cried the angry spirit; and then he burst out into a lang string of imprecations, fearsome to hear, against you, sir; and then added, ‘Soon, soon, shall he be levelled with the dust!—the dog! the parricide! First to betray my child, and then to put down myself! But he shall not escape—he shall not escape!’ he cried with such a hellish growl that I fainted, and heard no more.”
“Weel, that beats the world,” exclaimed the smith. “I wad hae thought the mare wad hae luppen ower yird and stane, or fa’en down dead wi’ fright.”