“You face life boldly,” said Madam Flemington.
“An’ what for no? Fegs, greetin’ fills naebody’s kyte.”[*]
She laughed again.
“You shall fill yours handsomely,” said she; “go to the other door and I will send orders to the women to attend to you.”
“Aye, will I,” he exclaimed, “but it wasna’ just for a piece that a’ cam’ a’ the way frae the muir o’ Rossie.”
“From where?” said she.
“The muir o’ Rossie,” repeated he. “Ma leddy, it was awa’ yonder at the tail o’ the muir that a’ tell’t Maister Flemington the road to Aberbrothock.”
“Mr. Flemington?”
“Aye, yon lad Flemington—an’ a deevil o’ a lad he is to tak’ the road wi’! Ma leddy, there’s been a pucklie fechtin’ aboot Montrose, an’ the Prince’s men hae gotten a haud o’ King George’s ship that’s in by Ferryden. As a’ gaed doon to the toon, a’ kaipit[†] wi’ Flemington i’ the road. He’d gotten a clour on ’s heed. He was fechtin’ doon aboot Inchbrayock, he tell’t me.”
“Fighting? With whom?” asked Madam Flemington, fixing her tiger’s eyes on him.