Adventure stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
“I would not advise you to make a practice of that, sir,” says I. “I
feel sure you would not find it to agree with you.”
“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the tangs?” said he.
I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he answered, with a
heckling laugh, that he thought I must have found the poker in the same
place and swallowed it.
There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek burned.
“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” said I, “I think I
would learn the English language first.”
He took me by the sleeve with a nod and a wink and led me quietly
outside Hope Park. But no sooner were we beyond the view of the
promenaders, than the fashion of his countenance changed. “You tam
lowland scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the jaw with his
closed fist.
I paid him as good or better on the return; whereupon he stepped a
little back and took off his hat to me decorously.
“Enough plows I think,” says he. “I will be the offended shentleman,
for who effer heard of such suffeeciency as tell a shentlemans that is
the king’s officer he cannae speak Cot’s English? We have swords at our
hurdles, and here is the King’s Park at hand. Will ye walk first, or
let me show ye the way?”
I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed him. As he went
I heard him grumble to himself about _Cot’s English_ and the _King’s
coat_, so that I might have supposed him to be seriously offended. But
his manner at the beginning of our interview was there to belie him. It
was manifest he had come prepared to fasten a quarrel on me, right or
wrong; manifest that I was taken in a fresh contrivance of my enemies;
and to me (conscious as I was of my deficiencies) manifest enough that
I should be the one to fall in our encounter.
As we came into that rough rocky desert of the King’s Park I was
tempted half-a-dozen times to take to my heels and run for it, so loath
was I to show my ignorance in fencing, and so much averse to die or
even to be wounded. But I considered if their malice went as far as
this, it would likely stick at nothing; and that to fall by the sword,
however ungracefully, was still an improvement on the gallows. I
considered besides that by the unguarded pertness of my words and the
quickness of my blow I had put myself quite out of court; and that even
if I ran, my adversary would probably pursue and catch me, which would
add disgrace to my misfortune. So that, taking all in all, I continued
marching behind him, much as a man follows the hangman, and certainly
with no more hope.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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