“You hear, sir,” said Olifaunt, addressing Heriot.
“Hush!” said the sagacious citizen; “this fellow is not ill named—he has more plies than one in his cloak. Stay, fellow,” for Moniplies, muttering somewhat about finishing his breakfast, was beginning to shamble towards the door, “answer me this farther question—When you gave your master's petition to his Majesty, gave you nothing with it?”
“Ou, what should I give wi' it, ye ken, Master George?”
“That is what I desire and insist to know,” replied his interrogator.
“Weel, then—I am not free to say, that maybe I might not just slip into the king's hand a wee bit Sifflication of mine ain, along with my lord's—just to save his Majesty trouble—and that he might consider them baith at ance.”
“A supplication of your own, you varlet!” said his master.
“Ou dear, ay, my lord,” said Richie—“puir bodies hae their bits of sifflications as weel as their betters.”
“And pray, what might your worshipful petition import?” said Master Heriot.—“Nay, for Heaven's sake, my lord, keep your patience, or we shall never learn the truth of this strange matter.—Speak out, sirrah, and I will stand your friend with my lord.”
“It's a lang story to tell—but the upshot is, that it's a scrape of an auld accompt due to my father's yestate by her Majesty the king's maist gracious mother, when she lived in the Castle, and had sundry providings and furnishings forth of our booth, whilk nae doubt was an honour to my father to supply, and whilk, doubtless, it will be a credit to his Majesty to satisfy, as it will be grit convenience to me to receive the saam.”
“What string of impertinence is this?” said his master.