He's no
convertit yet, but he's weel worth convertin', for there's guid stuff
in him."
Thomas did not consider how his common sense was running away with his
theology. But Macwha was not the man to bring him to book on that
score. His only reply lay in the careless _whishk whashk_ of his plane.
Thomas resumed:
"He jist wants what ye want, Gleorge Macwha."
"What's that, Thamas?" asked George, with a grim attempt at a smile, as
if to say: "I know what's coming, but I'm not going to mind it."
"He jist wants to be weel shaken ower the mou' o' the pit. He maun
smell the brunstane o' the everlastin' burnin's. He's nane o' yer saft
buirds, that ye can sleek wi' a sweyp o' yer airm; he's a blue
whunstane that's hard to dress, but, anes dressed, it bides the weather
bonnie. I like to work upo' hard stane mysel. Nane o' yer saft
freestane, 'at ye cud cut wi' a k-nife, for me!"
"Weel, I daursay ye're richt, Thamas."
"And, forbye, they say he took a' his ain licks ohn said a word, and
flew at the maister only whan he was gaein to lick the puir orphan
lassie--Jeames Anderson's lassie, ye ken."
"Ow! ay. It's the same tale they a' tell. I hae nae doobt it's
correck.
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