James Batter had popped in with a newspaper in his hand, to read me a curious account of a mermaid that was seen singing a Gaelic song, and combing its hair with a tortoise-shell comb, someway terrible far north about Shetland, by a respectable minister of the district, riding home in the gloaming after a Presbytery dinner. So, as he was just taking off his spectacles cannily, and saying to me—“And was not that droll?”—the lassie spread down her towel on the counter, when, lo, and behold! such an abominable spectacle! James Batter observing me run back, and turn white, put on his glasses again, cannily taking them out of his well-worn shagreen case, and, giving a stare down at the towel, almost touched the beast’s nose with his own.
“And what, in the name of goodness, is the matter?” quo’ James Batter; “ye seem in a wonderful quandary.”
“The matter!” answered I, in astonishment, looking to see if the man had lost his sight or his senses; “the matter! who ever saw a sheep’shead with straight horns, and a visnomy all colours of the rainbow—red, blue, orange, green, yellow, white, and black?”
“’Deed it is,” said James, after a nearer inspection; “it must be a lowsynaturay. I’m sure I have read most of Buffon’s books, and I have never heard tell of the like. It’s gey and queerish.”
“’Od, James,” answered I, “ye take everything very canny; you’re a philosopher, to be sure; but I daresay if the moon was to fall from the lift, and knock down the old kirk, ye would say no more than ‘it’s gey and queerish.’”
“Queerish, man! Do ye not see that?” added I, shoving down his head mostly on the top of it. “Do ye not see that? awful, most awful! extonishing!! Do ye not see that long beard? Who, in the name of goodness, ever was an eyewitness to a sheep’s-head, in a Christian land, with a beard like an unshaven Jew, crying ‘owl clowes,’ with a green bag over his left shoulder?”
“Dog on it,” said James, giving a fidge with his hainches; “dog on it, as I am a living sinner, that is the head of a Willie-goat.”
“Willie or Nannie,” answered I, “it’s not meat for me; and never shall an ounce of it cross the craig of my family—that is as sure as ever James Batter drave a shuttle. Give counsel in need, James: what is to be done?”
“That needs consideration,” quo’ James, giving a bit hoast. “Unless he makes ample apology, and explains the mistake in a feasible way, it is my humble opinion that he ought to be summoned before his betters. That is the legal way to make him smart for his sins.”
At last a thought struck me, and I saw farther through my difficulties than ever mortal man did through a millstone; but, like a politician, I minted not the matter to James. Keeping my tongue cannily within my teeth, I then laid the head, wrapped up in the bit towel, in a corner behind the counter; and turning my face round again to James, I put my hands into my breeches-pockets, as if nothing in the world had happened, and ventured back to the story of the mermaid. I asked him how she looked—what kind of dress she wore—if she swam with her corsets—what was the colour of her hair—where she would buy the tortoise-shell comb—and so on; when just as he was clearing his pipe to reply, who should burst open the shop-door like a clap of thunder, with burning cat’s een, and a face as red as a soldier’s jacket, but Cursecowl himself, with the new killing-coat in his hand, which, giving a tremendous curse (the words of which are not essentially necessary for me to repeat, being an elder of our kirk), he made play flee at me with such a birr, that it twisted round my neck, and mostly blinding me, made me doze like a tottum. At the same time, to clear his way, and the better to enable him to take a good mark, he gave James Batter a shove, that made him stoiter against the wall, and snacked the good new farthing tobacco-pipe, that James was taking his first whiff out of; crying at the same blessed moment—