‘Damn your ram! He’s in the stable. What d’ye want, rousin’ people
like this for?’
‘I’ll rouse ye, ye scamp!’ roared the other. ‘Whaur’s my ram—my
“Duke,” I say? D’ye think that I dinna ken a coo frae a cuddy; an’
that I’m to be imposed on wi’ a blasted auld cull in place o’ the
“Duke o’ Silversheen” that I ped 700 guineas guid cash for? D’ye
imagine I’m daft, ye coach-drivin’ fule, ye? If ye dinna confess wha’s
led ye astray, I’ll give ye in chairge this vera meenit. I’ll let ye
ken that I’m Jock M‘Pherson o’ Palkara; an’ I’m goin’ to mak’ it het
for ye for this wee jobbie!’
This tirade effectually awakened the driver, and said he, with an
earnestness there was no mistaking,—
‘By G—d, Mr M‘Pherson, I’m on the square. I never took much notice o’
the ram at the railway. It was dusk, too, when the agent put him in. I
seen him two or three times along the road, an’ thought he looked fust
class. Nobody could ha’ touched him without me knowin’ of it. But, at
the best o’ times, I can’t tell one sheep from t’other, never havin’
had any truck with ’em. Anyhow, if there’s cross work ’bout this un,
all I can say is, as I ain’t in it: An’ now you can send for the traps
if you likes.’
The man’s manner carried conviction with it, and for a few minutes
M‘Pherson was silent.