'A gentleman 's some saft gin he be ony the waur o' the company he gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye ken. Ye needna du as they du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' Black Geordie. An' says I--for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss (broom-bush) as I used to be--says I, “Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?” An' says Jock, “Brawly. Wha the deevil are ye?” An' says I, “Nae mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron Rothie, either--though maybe that's no little o' ane.” “Preserve me!” cried Jock, “it's Shargar.”--“Nae mair o' that, Jock,” says I. “Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune,”--an' there I stack, for I saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an' to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. “Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?” I said. “Oot by here,” he answert, “at Luckie Maitlan's.”--“That's a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock,” says I. “There's rizzons,” says he, an' lays his forefinger upo' the side o' 's nose, o' whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee. “We're no far frae there,” says I--an' deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but I jist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter; “tak the horse hame,” says I--“I'll jist loup upo' Black Geordie--an' we'll hae a glaiss thegither. I'll stan' treat.” Sae he gae me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a moufu' o' my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for 'im; an' awa we rade.' 'I didna ken 'at ye cud ride, Shargar.' 'Hoots! I cudna help it. I was aye takin' the horse to the watter at The Boar's Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit's, or The Aucht an' Furty. That's hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel. We war guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care for leein' or sweirin', an' sic like.' 'And what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo?' 'I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine was efter. I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or three times i' the gloamin'; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot onything.' 'What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 's aboot?' 'Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a' 'at fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage--gran' words!--I wonner whaur she forgathert wi' them. But she was a terrible wuman, my mither, an' kent a heap o' things--mair nor 'twas gude to ken, maybe. She gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an' they say the gipsies she gaed amang 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians 'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'.' 'Whaur is she noo?' 'I dinna ken. She may turn up ony day.' 'There's ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman, ye maunna gang keekin' that gate intil ither fowk's affairs.'