“Try her, then, Ratcliffe,” said Sharpitlaw, “for I am tired of her crazy pate, and be d—d to her.”
“Madge,” said Ratcliffe, “hae ye ony joes now?”
“An ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken.—Set him to be speaking of my joes, auld Daddie Ratton!”
“I dare say, ye hae deil ane?”
“See if I haena then,” said Madge, with the toss of the head of affronted beauty—“there’s Rob the Ranter, and Will Fleming, and then there’s Geordie Robertson, lad—that’s Gentleman Geordie—what think ye o’ that?”
Ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal, pursued the inquiry in his own way. “But, Madge, the lads only like ye when ye hae on your braws—they wadna touch you wi’ a pair o’ tangs when you are in your auld ilka-day rags.”
“Ye’re a leeing auld sorrow then,” replied the fair one; “for Gentle Geordie Robertson put my ilka-day’s claise on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed a’ through the town wi’ them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony queen in the land.”
“I dinna believe a word o’t,” said Ratcliffe, with another wink to the procurator. “Thae duds were a’ o’ the colour o’ moonshine in the water, I’m thinking, Madge—The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, I’se warrant ye?”
“It was nae sic thing,” said Madge, whose unretentive memory let out, in the eagerness of contradiction, all that she would have most wished to keep concealed, had her judgment been equal to her inclination. “It was neither scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown threshie-coat of a short-gown, and my mother’s auld mutch, and my red rokelay—and he gied me a croun and a kiss for the use o’ them, blessing on his bonny face—though it’s been a dear ane to me.”
“And where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?” said Sharpitlaw, in his most conciliatory manner.