“Well, Malcomson,” said he, “how do you like the bearded fellow in the garden?”
“Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh; he does ken something o' the sceence o' buttany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for I canna guess whare else he could hae become acquent wi' it.”
“I see Malcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry about your science. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or gardening?”
“Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that or any ither subjeck; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence, and vera extensive learnin' to classify an' arrange a' the plants o' the yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they dan be known throughout a' the nations o' the warld.”
“Well, well—I suppose I must let you have your way.”
“Why, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “'am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrinated in the sceence.”
“Ahem! well, well, go on.”
“An' it's no easy to guess whare he could hae gotten it. Indeed, 'am of opinion that he's no without a hantle o' book lair; for, to do him justice, de'il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o' the rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand. Naebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon.”
“Book lair, what is that?”
“Ou, just a correck knowledge o' the learned names of the plants. I dinna say, and I winna say, but he's a velliable assistant to me, an' I shouldna wish to pairt wi' him. If he'd only shave off yon beard, an' let himsel' be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony gentleman's gerden for a skeelful buttanist.”