"Hoo are ye, Jeames Doo?"
"Fine, I thank ye, sir," said James rising.
"I wad raither sit doon mysel', nor gar you stan' up efter yer day's
work, Jeames."
"Ow! I dinna warstle mysel' to the deith a'thegither."
But James, who was not a healthy man, was often in the wet field when
another would have been in bed, and righteously in bed. He had a strong
feeling of the worthlessness of man's life in comparison with the work
he has to do, even if that work be only the spreading of a fother of
dung. His mistress could not keep him from his work.
Mr Cupples sat down, and James resumed his seat.
"Ye're awfu' dubby (miry) aboot the feet, Mr Cupples. Jist gie me aff
yer shune, and I'll gie them a scrape and a lick wi' the
blackin'-brush," said James, again rising.
"Deil tak' me gin I do ony sic thing!" exclaimed Mr Cupples. "My
shune'll do weel eneuch."
"Whaur got ye a' that dub, sir? The roads is middlin' the day."
"I dinna aye stick to the roads, Jeames. I wan intil a bog first, and
syne intil some plooed lan' that was a' lumps o' clay shinin' green i'
the sun. Sae it's nae wonner gin I be some clortit. Will ye gie me a
pitawta, Jeames, in place o' the blackin'-brush?"
"Ay, twenty.
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