confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my friends,” added Alan, simply, “are no very well off.”
My uncle cleared his throat. “I’m no very caring,” says he. “He wasnae a good lad at the best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.”
“Ay, ay,” said Alan, “I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don’t care, to make the ransom smaller.”
“Na,” said my uncle, “it’s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for what I care.”
“Hoot, sir,” says Alan. “Blood’s thicker than water, in the deil’s name! Ye cannae desert your brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your countryside, or I’m the more deceived.”
“I’m no just very popular the way it is,” returned Ebenezer; “and I dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by you or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,” says he.
“Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,” said Alan.
“How that?” says my uncle, sharply.
“Ou, just this, way” says Alan. “My friends would doubtless keep your nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang where he pleased, and be damned to him!”
“Ay, but I’m no very caring about that either,” said my uncle. “I wouldnae be muckle made up with that.”
“I was thinking that,” said Alan.
“And what for why?” asked Ebenezer.
“Why, Mr. Balfour,” replied Alan, “by all that I could hear, there were two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us to keep him. It seems it’s not the first; well then, it’s the second; and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket and the pockets of my friends.”
“I dinnae follow ye there,” said my uncle.
“No?” said Alan. “Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well, what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?”
My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.
“Come, sir,” cried Alan. “I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman; I bear a king’s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals.”
“Eh, man,” cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, “give me a meenit! What’s like wrong with ye? I’m just a plain man and nae dancing master; and I’m tryin to be as ceevil as it’s morally possible. As for that wild talk, it’s fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be with my blunderbush?” he snarled.
“Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against the bright steel in the hands of Alan,” said the other. “Before your jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your breast-bane.”
“Eh, man, whae’s denying it?” said my uncle. “Pit it as ye please, hae’t your ain way; I’ll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye’ll be wanting, and ye’ll see that we’ll can agree fine.”
“Troth, sir,” said Alan, “I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?”
“O, sirs!” cried Ebenezer. “O, sirs, me! that’s no kind of language!”
“Killed or kept!” repeated Alan.
“O, keepit, keepit!” wailed my uncle. “We’ll have nae bloodshed, if you please.”
“Well,” says Alan, “as ye please; that’ll be the dearer.”
“The dearer?” cries Ebenezer. “Would ye fyle your hands wi’ crime?”
“Hoot!” said Alan, “they’re baith crime, whatever! And the killing’s easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad’ll be a fashious* job, a fashious, kittle business.”
* Troublesome.
“I’ll have him keepit, though,” returned my uncle. “I never had naething to do with onything morally wrong; and I’m no gaun to begin to pleasure a wild Hielandman.”
“Ye’re unco scrupulous,” sneered Alan.
“I’m a man o’ principle,” said Ebenezer, simply; “and if I have to pay for it, I’ll have to pay for it. And besides,” says he, “ye forget the lad’s my brother’s son.”
“Well, well,” said Alan, “and now about the price. It’s no very easy for me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters. I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first off-go?”
“Hoseason!” cries my uncle, struck aback. “What for?”
“For kidnapping David,” says Alan.
“It’s a lee, it’s a black lee!” cried my uncle. “He was never kidnapped. He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!”
“That’s no fault of mine nor yet of yours,” said Alan; “nor yet of Hoseason’s, if he’s a man that can be trusted.”
“What do ye mean?” cried Ebenezer. “Did Hoseason tell ye?”
“Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?” cried Alan. “Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for yoursel’ what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a fool’s bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in your private matters. But that’s past praying for; and ye must lie on your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what did ye pay him?”
“Has he tauld ye himsel’?” asked my uncle.
“That’s my concern,” said Alan.
“Weel,” said my uncle, “I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the solemn God’s truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I’ll be perfec’ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket, ye see.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well,” said the lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, “Good-evening, Mr. Balfour,” said he.
And, “Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer,” said I.
And, “It’s a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour” added Torrance.
