hen he wasna in his blacks? She
hummered a while, an' then she says, 'Maister Stark, I ken ye're an
ordeened man, for I was there whan a' the ministers pat their han's on
yer heid, an' you hunkerin' on the cushion--but I hae my feelin's!"
"'Your feelings, Mrs. Loan?' says the minister, thinking it was some
interestin' case o' personal experience he was to hear.
"'Ay,' says Jess; 'if it was only as muckle as a white tie I wadna mind,
but even a scaffie's wean wad be the better o' that muckle!'
"So Maister Stark said never a word, but he gaed his ways hame, pat on
his blacks, brocht his goun an' bands aneath his airm, and there never
was sic a christenin' in Cairn Edward as Jess Loan's bairn gat!"
"How does he draw wi' his fowk, Andra?" I asked, for the "Martyrs" were
far from being used to work of this kind.
"Oh, verra weel," said the draper; "but he stoppit Tammas Affleck and
John Peartree frae prayin' twenty meenits a-piece at the prayer-meetin'.
'The publican's prayer didna last twa ticks o' the clock, an' you're not
likely to better that even in twenty meenits!' says he. It was thocht
that they wad leave, but weel do they ken that nae ither kirk wad elect
them elders, an' they're baith fell fond o' airin' their waistcoats at
the plate.
"Some o' them was sore against him ridin' on a bicycle, till John
Peartree's grandson coupit oot o' the cart on the day o' the
Sabbath-schule trip, an' the minister had the doctor up in seventeen
minutes by the clock. There was a great cry in the pairish because he
rade doon on 't to assist Maister Forbes at the Pits wi' his communion
ae Sabbath nicht. But, says the minister, when some o' the Session took
it on them to tairge him for it, 'Gin I had driven, eyther man or beast
wad hae lost their Sabbath rest. I tired nocht but my own legs,' says
he. 'It helps me to get to the hoose of God, just like your Sunday
boots. Come barefit to the kirk, and I'll consider the maitter again.'"
"That minister preaches the feck o' his best sermons _oot_ o' the
pulpit," said I, as I bade Andrew good-day and went back into the High
Street, from which the folk were beginning to scatter. The farmers were
yoking their gigs and mounting into them in varying degrees and angles
of sobriety. So I took my way to the King's Arms, and got my beast into
the shafts. Half a mile up the Dullarg road, who should I fall in with
but "Drucken" Bourtree, the quarryman. He was walking as steady as the
Cairn
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