“Hold your peace, young man,” said Master George, with a tone of authority; “never mock the stranger or the poor—the black ox has not trod on your foot yet—you know not what lands you may travel in, or what clothes you may wear, before you die.”
Vincent held down his head and stood rebuked, but the stranger did not accept the apology which was made for him.
“I am a stranger, sir,” said he, “that is certain; though methinks, that, being such, I have been somewhat familiarly treated in this town of yours; but, as for my being poor, I think I need not be charged with poverty, till I seek siller of somebody.”
“The dear country all over,” said Master George, in a whisper, to David Ramsay, “pride and poverty.”
But David had taken out his tablets and silver pen, and, deeply immersed in calculations, in which he rambled over all the terms of arithmetic, from the simple unit to millions, billions, and trillions, neither heard nor answered the observation of his friend, who, seeing his abstraction, turned again to the Scot.
“I fancy now, Jockey, if a stranger were to offer you a noble, you would chuck it back at his head?”
“Not if I could do him honest service for it, sir,” said the Scot; “I am willing to do what I may to be useful, though I come of an honourable house, and may be said to be in a sort indifferently weel provided for.”
“Ay!” said the interrogator, “and what house may claim the honour of your descent?”
“An ancient coat belongs to it, as the play says,” whispered Vincent to his companion.
“Come, Jockey, out with it,” continued Master George, observing that the Scot, as usual with his countrymen, when asked a blunt, straightforward question, took a little time before answering it.