“It’s ta watch ’at ’ll pe
telling ta lies, Malcolm, my poy,” he said thoughtfully.
“She was once pefore.”
“But the sun says the same ’s the watch,
daddy,” persisted Malcolm.
Duncan understood the position of the sun and what
it signified, as well as the clearest eyed man in
Port Lossie, but he could not afford to yield.
“It was peing some conspeeracy of ta cursit
Cawmills, to make her loss her poor pension,”
he said. “Put never you mind, Malcolm;
I’ll pe making up for ta plunder ta morrow mornin’.
Ta coot peoples shall haf teir sleeps a whole hour
after tey ought to be at teir works.”
Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish,
hoping to part with some of the less desirable of
them, and so lighten his basket, before entering the
grounds of Lossie House. But he had met with
little success, and was now approaching the town gate,
as they called it, which closed a short street at
right angles to the principal one, when he came upon
Mrs Catanach—on her knees, cleaning her
doorstep.
“Weel, Malcolm, what fish hae ye?” she
said, without looking up.
“Hoo kent ye it was me, Mistress Catanach?”
asked the lad.
“Kent it was you!” she repeated.
“Gien there be but twa feet at ance in ony street
o’ Portlossie, I’ll tell ye whase heid’s
abune them, an’ my een steekit (closed).”
“Hoot! ye’re a witch, Mistress Catanach!”
said Malcolm merrily.
“That’s as may be,” she returned,
rising, and nodding mysteriously; “I hae tauld
ye nae mair nor the trowth. But what garred ye
whup’s a’ oot o’ oor nakit beds
by five o’clock i’ the mornin’, this
mornin’, man! That’s no what ye’re
paid for.”
“Deed, mem, it was jist a mistak’ o’
my puir daddy’s. He had been feart o’
sleepin’ ower lang, ye see, an’ sae had
waukit ower sune. I was oot efter the fish mysel.”
“But ye fired the gun ‘gen the chap (before
the stroke) o’ five.”
“Ow, ay! I fired the gun. The puir
man wod hae bursten himsel’ gien I hadna.”
“Deil gien he had bursten himsel’—the
auld heelan’ sholt!” exclaimed Mrs Catanach
spitefully.
“Ye sanna even sic words to my gran’father,
Mrs Catanach,” said Malcolm with rebuke.
She laughed a strange laugh.
“Sanna!” she repeated contemptuously.
“An’ wha’s your gran’father,
that I sud tak tent (heed) hoo I wag my tongue ower
his richtousness?”
Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would
be friendliness —“But what’ll
ye be seekin’ for that bit sawmon trooty, man?”
she said.
As she spoke she approached his basket, and would
have taken the fish in her hands, but Malcolm involuntarily
drew back.
“It’s gauin’ to the Hoose to my
lord’s brakfast,” he said.
“Hoots! ye’ll jist lea’ the troot
wi’ me.—Ye’ll be seekin’
a saxpence for ’t, I reckon,” she persisted,
again approaching the basket.
