"You must be a good age, now, Nathan," says the colonel.
"I'm no verra aul' yet, laird," was the reply; "I'm just turnt a hunner."
"A hundred!" says the colonel, musing; "well, you must be all that. But the idea of a man of a hundred sitting blubbering that way! Whatever could you get to cry about?"
"It was my father lashed me, sir," said Nathan, blubbering again; "an' he put me oot, so he did."
"Your father!" said the colonel; "is your father alive yet?"
"Leevin! ay," replied Nathan; "I ken that the day tae my sorrow."
"Where is he?" says the colonel. "What an age he must be! I would like to see him."
"Oh, he's up in the barn there," says Nathan; "an no' in a horrid gude humor the noo, aither."
They went up to the barn together, and found the father busy threshing the barley with the big flail, and tearing on fearful. Seeing Nathan and the laird coming in, he stopped and saluted the colonel, who, after inquiring how he was, asked him why he had struck Nathan.
"The young rascal!" says the father, "there's nae dooin' wi' him; he's never oot o' mischief. I had to lick him this mornin' for throwin' stanes at his grandfather!"