A curious pair of "poles" the two made; the mesothet whereof, by
no means a _"punctum indifferens,"_ but a true connecting spiritual idea,
stood on the table--in the whisky-bottle.
Farmer Porter was evidently big with some great thought, and had all a true
poet's bashfulness about publishing the fruit of his creative genius. He
looked round again at the skinless man, the caricatures, the books; and,
as his eye wandered from pile to pile, and shelf to shelf, his face
brightened, and he seemed to gain courage.
Solemnly he put his hat on his knees, and began solemnly brushing it with
his cuff. Then he saw me watching him, and stopped. Then he put his pipe
solemnly on the hob, and cleared his throat for action, while I buried my
face in the book.
"Them's a sight o' larned beuks, Muster Mackaye?"
"Humph!"
"Yow maun ha' got a deal o' scholarship among they, noo?"
"Humph!"
"Dee yow think, noo, yow could find out my boy out of un, by any ways o'
conjuring like?"
"By what?"
"Conjuring--to strike a perpendicular, noo, or say the Lord's Prayer
backwards?"
"Wadna ye prefer a meeracle or twa?" asked Sandy, after a long pull at the
whisky-toddy.
Pages:
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522