“Ay; but see, lass,” answered the baker’s lady, “there’s twa o’ them faulded unco square, and sealed at the tae side—I doubt there will be protested bills in them.”
“Is there ony letters come yet for Jenny Caxon?” inquired the woman of joints and giblets; “the lieutenant’s been awa three weeks.”
“Just ane on Tuesday was a week,” answered the dame of letters.
“Wast a ship-letter?” asked the Fornerina.
“In troth wast.”
“It wad be frae the lieutenant then,” replied the mistress of the rolls, somewhat disappointed—“I never thought he wad hae lookit ower his shouther after her.”
“Od, here’s another,” quoth Mrs. Mailsetter. “A ship-letter—post-mark, Sunderland.” All rushed to seize it.—“Na, na, leddies,” said Mrs. Mailsetter, interfering; “I hae had eneugh o’ that wark—Ken ye that Mr. Mailsetter got an unco rebuke frae the secretary at Edinburgh, for a complaint that was made about the letter of Aily Bisset’s that ye opened, Mrs. Shortcake?”
“Me opened!” answered the spouse of the chief baker of Fairport; “ye ken yoursell, madam, it just cam open o’ free will in my hand—what could I help it?—folk suld seal wi’ better wax.”
“Weel I wot that’s true, too,” said Mrs. Mailsetter, who kept a shop of small wares, “and we have got some that I can honestly recommend, if ye ken onybody wanting it. But the short and the lang o’t is, that we’ll lose the place gin there’s ony mair complaints o’ the kind.”
“Hout, lass—the provost will take care o’ that.”