“A dear countryman?” said Linklater, when this pressing message was delivered to him. “Well, let him come in and be d—d, that I should say sae! This now is some red-headed, long-legged, gillie-white-foot frae the West Port, that, hearing of my promotion, is come up to be a turn-broche, or deputy scullion, through my interest. It is a great hinderance to any man who would rise in the world, to have such friends to hang by his skirts, in hope of being towed up along with him.—Ha! Richie Moniplies, man, is it thou? And what has brought ye here? If they should ken thee for the loon that scared the horse the other day!—”
“No more o' that, neighbour,” said Richie,—“I am just here on the auld errand—I maun speak with the king.”
“The king? Ye are red wud,” said Linklater; then shouted to his assistant in the kitchen, “Look to the broches, ye knaves—pisces purga—Salsamenta fac macerentur pulchre—I will make you understand Latin, ye knaves, as becomes the scullions of King James.” Then in a cautious tone, to Richie's private ear, he continued, “Know ye not how ill your master came off the other day?—I can tell you that job made some folk shake for their office.”
“Weel, but, Laurie, ye maun befriend me this time, and get this wee bit sifflication slipped into his Majesty's ain most gracious hand. I promise you the contents will be most grateful to him.”
“Richie,” answered Linklater, “you have certainly sworn to say your prayers in the porter's lodge, with your back bare; and twa grooms, with dog-whips, to cry amen to you.”
“Na, na, Laurie, lad,” said Richie, “I ken better what belangs to sifflications than I did yon day; and ye will say that yoursell, if ye will but get that bit note to the king's hand.”
“I will have neither hand nor foot in the matter,” said the cautious Clerk of the Kitchen; “but there is his Majesty's mess of cock-a-leekie just going to be served to him in his closet—I cannot prevent you from putting the letter between the gilt bowl and the platter; his sacred Majesty will see it when he lifts the bowl, for he aye drinks out the broth.”
“Enough said,” replied Richie, and deposited the paper accordingly, just before a page entered to carry away the mess to his Majesty.
“Aweel, aweel, neighbour,” said Laurence, when the mess was taken away, “if ye have done ony thing to bring yoursell to the withy, or the scourging post, it is your ain wilful deed.”
“I will blame no other for it,” said Richie; and with that undismayed pertinacity of conceit, which made a fundamental part of his character, he abode the issue, which was not long of arriving.