"What note, honest man?" said Mr. Weft.

"Got tamn," quo' Donald; "the note the auld scounrel, your
grandfather, stole frae me."

"My grandfaither!" answered the ither wi' amazement. "I am thinking,
honest man, ye hae had a glass ower muckle. My grandfaither has been
dead for saxteen years, and I ne'er heard tell till now that he was a
fief."

"Weel, weel, then," quo' the Heelandman, "I don't care naething about
it. If he's no your grandfaither, he'll be your faither, or your
brither, or your cousin."

"My faither or my brither, or my cousin!" repeated Mr. Weft. "I maun
tell ye plainly, frien', that I hae neither faither, nor brither, nor
cousin of ony description on this side of the grave. I dinna
understand ye, honest man, but I reckon that ye hae sat ower lang at
the whisky, and my advice to ye is to stap awa hame and sleep it aff."

At this speech the Heelandman lost a' patience, and lookit sae awfully
fairce, that ance or twice I was on the nick of coming forrit, and
explaining how matters really stood; but curiosity keepit me chained
to the back shop, and I just thocht I would bide a wee, and see how
the affair was like to end.

"Pray, wha are you, sir?" said Donald, putting his hands in his sides,
and looking through his specks upon Mr. Weft, like a deevil incarnit.
"Wha are you, sir, that daar to speak to me in this manner?"