"Hoots, the maister o' the trade sees to my wauges!"

"An' wha may he be?" asked Donal, well foreseeing the answer.

"He was never cobbler himsel', but he was ance carpenter; an' noo
he's liftit up to be heid o' a' the trades. An' there's ae thing he
canna bide, an' that's close parin'."

He stopped. But Donal held his peace, waiting; and he went on.

"To them 'at maks little, for reasons good, by their neebour, he
gies the better wauges whan they gang hame. To them 'at maks a' 'at
they can, he says, 'Ye helpit yersel'; help awa'; ye hae yer reward.
Only comena near me, for I canna bide ye'.--But aboot thae shune o'
yours, I dinna weel ken! They're weel eneuch worth duin' the best I
can for them; but the morn's Sunday, an' what hae ye to put on?"

"Naething--till my kist comes; an' that, I doobt, winna be afore
Monday, or maybe the day efter."

"An' ye winna be able to gang to the kirk!"

"I'm no partic'lar aboot gaein' to the kirk; but gien I wantit to
gang, or gien I thoucht I was b'un' to gang, think ye I wad bide at
hame 'cause I hadna shune to gang in! Wad I fancy the Lord
affrontit wi' the bare feet he made himsel'!"

The cobbler caught up the worst shoe and began upon it at once.