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 the sodgers on him by speering ony questions at him; but let na him hae a room to himsel, they wad say we were hiding him.—For yoursel, Jenny, ye'll be civil to a' the folk, and take nae heed o' ony nonsense and daffing the young lads may say t'ye. Folk in the hostler line maun pit up wi' muckle. Your mother, rest her saul, could pit up wi' as muckle as maist women—but aff hands is fair play; and if ony body be uncivil ye may gi'e me a cry.—Aweel,—when the malt begins to get aboon the meal, they'll begin to speak about government in kirk and state, and then, Jenny, they are like to quarrel—let them be doing—anger's a drouthy passion, and the mair they dispute, the mair ale they'll drink; but ye were best serve them wi' a pint of the sma browst, it will heat them less, and they'll never ken the difference."

'"But, father," said Jenny, "if they come to lounder ilk ither as they did last time, suld na I cry on you?"

"At no hand, Jenny; the redder gets