Moniplies was not many steps from the door, when a person, whom, lost in his reflections on gaming, ordinaries, and the manners of the age, he had not observed, and who had been as negligent on his part, ran full against him; and, when Richie desired to know whether he meant “ony incivility,” replied by a curse on Scotland, and all that belonged to it. A less round reflection on his country would, at any time, have provoked Richie, but more especially when he had a double quart of Canary and better in his pate. He was about to give a very rough answer, and to second his word by action, when a closer view of his antagonist changed his purpose.
“You are the vera lad in the warld,” said Richie, “whom I most wished to meet.”
“And you,” answered the stranger, “or any of your beggarly countrymen, are the last sight I should ever wish to see. You Scots are ever fair and false, and an honest man cannot thrive within eyeshot of you.”
“As to our poverty, friend,” replied Richie, “that is as Heaven pleases; but touching our falset, I'll prove to you that a Scotsman bears as leal and true a heart to his friend as ever beat in English doublet.”
“I care not whether he does or not,” said the gallant. “Let me go—why keep you hold of my cloak? Let me go, or I will thrust you into the kennel.”
“I believe I could forgie ye, for you did me a good turn once, in plucking me out of it,” said the Scot.
“Beshrew my fingers, then, if they did so,” replied the stranger. “I would your whole country lay there, along with you; and Heaven's curse blight the hand that helped to raise them!—Why do you stop my way?” he added, fiercely.
“Because it is a bad one, Master Jenkin,” said Richie. “Nay, never start about it, man—you see you are known. Alack-a-day! that an honest man's son should live to start at hearing himself called by his own name!” Jenkin struck his brow violently with his clenched fist.
“Come, come,” said Richie, “this passion availeth nothing. Tell me what gate go you?”
“To the devil!” answered Jin Vin.