"Ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her as you,
Mistress Partan," insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing himself in
fault, was humble; "and it's tere tat she's paid," he added, with
a bridling motion, "and not town here pelow."
"Dinna ye glorifee yersel' to suppose there's a fisher, lat alane
a fisher's wife, in a' the haill Seaton 'at wad lippen (trust) till
an auld haiveril like you to hae them up i' the mornin'! Haith! I
was oot o' my bed hoors or I hard the skirlin' o' your pipes. Troth
I ken weel hoo muckle ower ear' ye was! But what fowk taks in han',
fowk sud put oot o' han' in a proper mainner, and no misguggle 't
a'thegither like yon. An' for what they say i' the toon, there's
Mistress Catanach--"
"Mistress Catanach is a paad 'oman," said Duncan.
"I wad advise you, piper, to haud a quaiet sough about her. She's
no to be meddlet wi', Mistress Catanach, I can tell ye. Gien ye
anger her, it'll be the waur for ye. The neist time ye hae a lyin'
in, she'll be raxin' (reaching) ye a hairless pup, or, deed, maybe
a stan' o' bagpipes, as the produck."
"Her nain sel' will not pe requiring her sairvices, Mistress Partan;
she'll pe leafing tat to you, if you'll excuse me," said Duncan.
"Deed, ye're richt there! An auld speldin' (dried haddock) like
you! Ha! ha! ha!"
Malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the cottage.
Duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, with an apron
over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp.
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