“Nae objection in the warld,” replied Jeanie. “Come as aften as ye like; and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi’ ye, for we’re a’ fond o’ music.”
“A bargain be’t,” said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.
“Time and the hour,” says Shakspeare, “will wear through the roughest day;” and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous party of whom we are speaking now soon found.
Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.
These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings as payment in full for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger’s share, he generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party, as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.
“Very fair,” said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his brother in trade—“very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the odd sixpences?”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie, “wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid notion.”
And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.
“Ye’re a guid fiddler—I’ll say that o’ ye,” quoth Willie, after tossing down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. “I would never wish to hear a better.”
“I have had some practice,” said the other modestly, and at the same time following his companion’s example with his glass.