“Dinna rise,” said Jock, “till I tak’ awa’ the beddin’.  Ye see,” continued the expert in camping out on hills, “the hay an’ the heather gets doon yer neck an’ mak’s ye yeuk [itch] an’ fidge a’ day.  An’ at first ye mind that, though after a while gin ye dinna yeuk, ye find it michty oninterestin’!”

Ralph sat up.  Something in Jock’s bare heel as he sat on the grass attracted his attention.

“Wi’, Jock,” he said, infinitely astonished, “what’s that in yer heel?”

“Ou!” said Jock, “it’s nocht but a nail!”

“A nail!” said Ralph; “what are ye doin’ wi’ a nail in yer foot?”

“I gat it in last Martinmas,” he said.

“But why do you not get it out?  Does it not hurt?” said Ralph, compassionating.

“’Deed did it awhile at the first,” said Jock, “but I got used to it.  Ye can use wi’ a’thing.  Man’s a wunnerful craitur!”

“Let me try to pull it out,” said Ralph, shivering to think of the pain he must have suffered.

“Na, na, ye ken what ye hae, but ye dinna ken what ye micht get.  I ken what I hae to pit up wi’, wi’ a nail in my fit; but wha kens what it micht be gin I had a muckle hole ye could pit yer finger in?  It wadna be bonny to hae the clocks howkin’ [beetles digging] and the birdies biggin’ their nests i’ my heel!  Na, na, it’s a guid lesson to be content wi’ yer doon-settin’, or ye may get waur!”

It was in the bright morning light that these two took the Edinburgh road, which clambered down over the hillsides by the village of Leadhills into the valley of the Clyde.  Through Abingdon and Biggar they made their way, and so admirable were Jock’s requisitioning abilities that Winsome’s green purse was never once called into action.

When they looked from the last downward step of the Mid-Lothian table-land upon the city of Edinburgh, there was a brisk starting of smoke from many chimneys, for the wives of the burgesses were kindling their supper fires, and their husbands were beginning to come in with the expectant look of mankind about meal-time.

“Come wi’ me, Jock, and I’ll show ye Edinburgh, as ye have showed me the hills of heather!” This was Ralph’s invitation.

“Na,” said Jock, “an’ thank ye kindly a’ the same.  There’s muckle loons there that micht snap up a guid-lookin’ lad like Jock, an’ ship him ontill their nesty ships afore he could cry ’Mulquarchar and Craignell!’ Jock Gordon may be a fule, but he kens when he’s weel aff.  Nae Auld Reekies for him, an’ thank ye kindly.  When he wants to gang to the gaol he’ll steal a horse an’ gang daicent!  He’ll no gang wi’ his thoom in his mooth, an’ when they say till him, ‘What are ye here for?’ be obleeged to answer, ‘Fegs, an’ I dinna ken what for!’ Na, na, it wadna be mensefu’ like ava’.  A’ the Gordons that ever was hae gaen to the gaol—­but only yince.  It’s aye been a hangin’ maitter, an’ Jock’s no the man to turn again the rule an’ custom o’ his forebears.  ’Yince gang, yince hang,’ is Jock’s motto.”