“Well, then, d—n it!” answered the criminal, “since it maun be sae, I saw Geordie Robertson among the boys that brake the jail; I suppose that will do me some gude?”
“That’s speaking to the purpose, indeed,” said the office-bearer; “and now, Rat, where think ye we’ll find him?”
“Deil haet o’ me kens,” said Ratcliffe; “he’ll no likely gang back to ony o’ his auld howffs; he’ll be off the country by this time. He has gude friends some gate or other, for a’ the life he’s led; he’s been weel educate.”
“He’ll grace the gallows the better,” said Mr. Sharpitlaw; “a desperate dog, to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! Wha kens wha’s turn it might be next?—But you saw him plainly?”
“As plainly as I see you.”
“How was he dressed?” said Sharpitlaw.
“I couldna weel see; something of a woman’s bit mutch on his head; but ye never saw sic a ca’-throw. Ane couldna hae een to a’ thing.”
“But did he speak to no one?” said Sharpitlaw.
“They were a’ speaking and gabbling through other,” said Ratcliffe, who was obviously unwilling to carry his evidence farther than he could possibly help.
“This will not do, Ratcliffe,” said the procurator; “you must speak out—out—out,” tapping the table emphatically, as he repeated that impressive monosyllable.