"How do _you_ ken?" cried the baker. "He's no the first youngster I've seen the wiseacres o' the world wagging their sagacious pows owre; and, eh, but he was _this_ waster!--according to their way of it--and, oh, but he was the _other_ waster! and, ochonee, but he was the _wild_ fellow. And a' the while they werena fit to be his doormat; for it was only the fire in the ruffian made him seem sae daft." "True!" said the ex-Provost, "true! Still there's a decency in daftness. And there's no decency in young Gourlay. He's just a mouth! 'Start canny, and you'll steer weel,' my mother used to say; but he has started unco ill, and he'll steer to ruin." "Dinna spae ill-fortune!" said the baker, "dinna spae ill-fortune! And never despise a youngster for a random start. It's the blood makes a breenge." "Well, I like young men to be quiet," said Sandy Toddle. "I would rather have them a wee soft than rollickers." "Not I!" said the baker. "If I had a son, I would rather an ill deil sat forenenst me at the table than parratch in a poke. Burns (God rest his banes!) struck the he'rt o't. Ye mind what he said o' Prince Geordie: 'Yet mony a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver; And ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clishmaclaver. There him at Agincourt wha shone. Few better were or braver; And yet wi' funny queer Sir John He was an unco shaver For mony a day.' Dam't, but Burns is gude." "Huts, man, dinna sweer sae muckle!" frowned the old Provost. "Ou, there's waur than an oath now and than," said the baker. "Like spice in a bun it lends a briskness. But it needs the hearty manner wi't. The Deacon there couldna let blatter wi' a hearty oath to save his withered sowl. I kenned a trifle o' a fellow that got in among a jovial gang lang syne that used to sweer tremendous, and he bude to do the same the bit bodie; so he used to say '_Dim it!_' in a wee, sma voice that was clean rideec'lous. He was a lauchable dirt, that." "What was his name?" said Sandy Toddle. "Your ain," said the baker. (To tell the truth, he was gey fou.) "Alexander Toddle was his name: '_Dim it!_' he used to squeak, for he had been a Scotch cuddy in the Midlands, and whiles he used the English. '_Dim it!_' said he. I like a man that says '_Dahm't._'" "Ay; but then, you thee, _you_'re an artitht in wordth," said the Deacon. "Ye're an artist in spite," said the baker. "Ah, well," said the ex-Provost, "Burns proved to be wrang in the end o't, and you'll maybe be the same. George the Fort' didna fill the throne verra doucely for a' their clishmaclaver, and I don't think young Gourlay'll fill the pulpit verra doucely for a' ours. For he's saftie and daftie baith, and that's the deidly combination. At least, that's my opinion," quoth he, and smacked his lips, the important man. "Tyuts," said the baker, "folk should be kind to folk. There may be a possibeelity for the Gourlays in the youngster yet!"