By this time I perceived that Dr Tozy and Flamingo were both literati in a small way, whereby one or two amusing mistakes took place on the part of Master Rory Macgregor, who, of all points of the compass, had no pretensions to any kind or description of erudition. The conversation happened to turn on Irish politics, and Mr Frenche had just remarked that, notwithstanding all the noise and smoke of the demagogues who lived and battened on the disturbances of the country, he believed on his conscience, from what he saw, when he was last in Ireland, that there were very few influential men of respectability or property who countenanced them or their doings. "Yet, strange as it does appear, there are some, uncle," said I. "Oh yes, undoubtedly," exclaimed Tozy, an Irishman himself; "but very few--very few indeed--mere drops in the bucket--_rari nantes in gurgite vasto_." "Fat's tat, toctor?--is tat Creek?" "Yes; it means capital brandy for a long drink," said Tozy, swigging off his glass of cold brandy grog as coolly as possible. "What an expressive language!--maist as much sae as tae Gaelic. To you know, py the very soond, I guessed it was something apoot pranty and a long trink?" quoth Rory. "You shine to-day, doctor," said Twig; but presently Flamingo flew off with the thread of the conversation, like a magpie stealing twine, and I forget the prominent topics we discussed, but we had a great deal of fun and laughter, until Don Felix once more settled down in some literary talk with Tozy, and incidentally noticed the Decameron of Boccaccio. Rory, unfortunate Rory, once more pricked up his ears at this, and determined to show his conversational powers now, if he had been interrupted before, being by this time also a little in the wind. So, after grunting to himself, "Cameron--Cameron," he, after a moment's thought, perked himself up in his chair and swore stoutly that he knew _him_ very well--"as fine a chiel as ever pore the name of Cameron, and her place was ane of tae finest in the west coast of Arkyleshire--na, am no shust shure put she may pe a farawa' cousin of Lochiel's hersell." "The very same," quoth Twig, trotting away with the Macgregor, as if he had got him on one of his own _shelties_, and entering on a long rambling conversation, during which he took care to butter him an inch thick--"Why, you do make the shrewdest remarks, Mac; shrewd! nay, the wisest, I should say. You really know _every thing_ and _every body_--you are a perfect Solon." Flamingo here saw, and so did I, that Macgregor--whether he began to feel that Jacob was quizzing him or not, I could not tell--looked as black as thunder, so he good-humouredly struck in with--"Now, Jacob, do hold your tongue, you are such a chatterbox!" "Chatterbox!--to be sure--I can't help it. I have dined on parrot-pie, you know, Felix." "I wish tae hat peen hoolets for your sake, Maister Twick," said Roderick, fiercely.