As he spoke, he held the fish in at the door, but his eyes were turned to the main street, whence the factor’s gig was at the moment rounding the corner into that in which he stood; when suddenly the salmon-trout was snatched from his hand, and flung so violently in his face, that he staggered back into the road: the factor had to pull sharply up to avoid driving over him. His rout rather than retreat was followed by a burst of insulting laughter, and at the same moment, out of the house rushed a large vile-looking mongrel, with hair like an ill-used door-mat and an abbreviated nose, fresh from the ashpit, caught up the trout, and rushed with it towards the gate. “That’s richt, my bairn!” shouted Mrs Catanach to the brute as he ran: “tak it to Mrs Courthope. Tak it back wi’ my compliments.” Amidst a burst of malign laughter she slammed her door, and from a window sideways watched the young fisherman. As he stood looking after the dog in wrath and bewilderment, the factor, having recovered from the fit of merriment into which the sudden explosion of events had cast him, and succeeded in quieting his scared horse, said, slackening his reins to move on, “You sell your fish too cheap, Malcolm.” “The deil’s i’ the tyke,” rejoined Malcolm, and, seized at last by a sense of the ludicrousness of the whole affair, burst out laughing, and turned for the High Street. “Na, na, laddie; the deil’s no awa’ in sic a hurry: he bed (_remained_),” said a voice behind him. Malcolm turned again and lifted his bonnet. It was Miss Horn, who had come up from the Seaton. “Did ye see yon, mem?” he asked. “Ay, weel that, as I cam up the brae. Dinna stan’ there, laddie. The jaud’ll be watchin’ ye like a cat watchin’ a mouse. I ken her! She’s a cat-wuman, an’ I canna bide her. She’s no mowse (_safe to touch_). _She’s_ in secrets mair nor guid, I s’ wad (_wager_). Come awa’ wi’ me; I want a bit fish. I can ill eat an’ her lyin’ deid I’ the hoose--it winna gang ower; but I maun get some strength pitten intill me afore the berial. It’s a God’s-mercy I wasna made wi’ feelin’s, or what wad hae come o’ me! Whaur’s the gude o’ greetin? It’s no worth the saut i’ the watter o’ ’t, Ma’colm. It’s an ill wardle, an micht be a bonny ane--gien ’t warna for ill men.” “’Deed, mem! I’m thinkin’ mair aboot ill women, at this prasent,” said Malcolm. “Maybe there’s no sic a thing, but yon’s unco like ane. As bonny a sawmon-troot ’s ever ye saw, mem! It’s a’ I’m cawpable o’ to haud ohn cursed that foul tyke o’ hers.” “Hoot, laddie! haud yer tongue.” “Ay will I. I’m na gaun to du ’t, ye ken. But sic a fine troot ’s that--the verra ane ye wad hae likit, mem!” “Never ye min’ the troot. There’s mair whaur that cam frae. What anger’t her at ye?” “Naething mair nor that I bude to gie Mistress Courthope the first wale (_choice_) o’ my fish.”