self wears silk
will take our part against broidered cloak and cloth of gold, though
he may do so against tartan and Irish frieze, is something to be
questioned. Take a fool's advice. We have saved our Maiden, of whom
I never meant to speak harm, as truly I knew none. They have lost one
man's hand, at least, thanks to Harry Smith--"

"And to me," added the little important bonnet maker.

"And to Oliver Proudfute, as he tells us," continued the pottingar, who
contested no man's claim to glory provided he was not himself compelled
to tread the perilous paths which lead to it. "I say, neighbours, since
they have left a hand as a pledge they will never come in Couvrefew
Street again, why, in my simple mind, we were best to thank our stout
townsman, and the town having the honour and these rakehells the loss,
that we should hush the matter up and say no more about it."

These pacific counsels had their effect with some of the citizens,
who began to nod and look exceedingly wise upon the advocate of
acquiescence, with whom, notwithstanding the offence so lately given,
Simon Glover seemed also to agree in opinion. But not so Henry Smith,
who, seeing the consultation at a stand, took up the speech in his usual
downright manner.

"I am neither the oldest nor the richest among you, neighbours, and I am
not sorry for it. Years will come, if one lives to see them; and I can
win and spend my penny like another, by the blaze of the furnace and the
wind of the bellows. But no man ever saw me sit down with wrong done
in word or deed to our fair town, if man's tongue and man's hand could
right it. Neither will I sit down with this outrage, if I can help it.
I will go to the provost myself, if no one will go with me; he is a
knight, it is true, and a gentleman of free and true born blood, as we
all know, since Wallace's time, who settled his great grandsire amongst
us. But if he were the proudest nobleman in the land, he is the Provost
of Perth, and for his own honour must see the freedoms and immunities of
the burgh preserved--ay, and I know he will. I have made a steel doublet
for him, and have a good guess at the kind of heart that it was meant to
cover."

"Surely," said Bailie Craigdallie, "it would be to no purpose to stir
at court without Sir Patrick Charteris's countenance: the ready answer
would be, 'Go to your provost, you borrel loons.' So, neighbours and
townsmen, if you will stand by my side, I and our pottingar Dwining