The next little town I came to, and the very first house that I entered, the wife cried out, ‘Plague on your snout, sir, ye filthy blackguard chapman-like b----h it ye are, the last time ye came here ye gart our Sandy burn the gude bane kame it I gid a saxpence for in Fa’kirk, ay did ye, ay, sae did ye een, and said ye wad gie him a muckle clear button to do it.’ Me, said I, I never had ado with you a’ the days of my life, and do not say that Sandy is mine. A wae worth the body, am I saying ye had ado wi’ me, I wadna hae ado wi’ the like o’ you, nor I am sure wi’ them I never saw. But what about the button and the bane kame, goodwife? Sannock is na this the man? Ay is’t, cried the boy, gie me my button, for I burnt the kame, and she paid me for’t. Gae awa, sir, said I, your mother and you are but mocking me. It was either you or ane like you, or some other body. O goodwife, I mind who it is now; ’twas just ane like me, when ye see the tane ye see the tither; they ca’ him Jock Jimbither. A wae worth him, quoth the wife, if I dinna thrapple him for my gude bane kame. Now, said I, goodwife, be good, bridle your passion, and buy a bane kame and coloured napkin, I’ll gie you a whaukin’ penny-worth, will gar you sing in your bed, if I should sell you the tae half and gift you the tither, and gar you pay for every inch o’t sweetly or a’ be done. Hech, man, said she, ye’re a hearty fallow, and I hae need o’ a’ these things, but a bane kame I maun hae; for our Sannock’s head is a’ hotchen, and our John’s is little better, for an’ let them alane but ae eight days, they grow as grit as grossets. And here I sold a bane kame and a napkin, for she believed such a douse lad as I had no hand in making the boy burn the bone comb. The next house I came into, there was a very little tailor sitting on a table, like a t--d on a trencher, with his legs plet over other, made me imagine he was a sucking three-footed tailor; first I sold him a thimble, and then he wanted needles which I showed him, one paper after another; he looked their eyes and trying their nibs in his sleeve, dropt the ones he thought proper on the ground between his feet, where he sat in a dark corner near the fire, thinking I did not perceive him. O said he them needles of yours are not good, man, I’ll not buy any of them. I do not think you need, said I, taking them out of his hand, and lights a candle that was standing near by; come, said I, sit about, you thieving dog, till I gather up my needles, then gathers up ten of them.