This Davie was gifted with a dangerous kind of humour which I have heard called innuendo, and he soon had the bar packed with listeners who laughed and cursed turn about, filling the room to a closeness scarce supportable.  And what between the foul air and my resentment, and apprehension lest John Paul would come hither after me, I was in prodigious discomfort of body and mind.  But there was no pushing my way through them unnoticed, wedged as I was in a far corner; so I sat still until unfortunately, or fortunately, the eye of Davie chanced to fall upon me, and immediately his yellow face lighted malignantly.

“Oh! here be the gentleman the captain’s brocht hame!” he cried, emphasizing the two words; “as braw a gentleman as eer taen frae pirates, an’ nae doubt sin to ae bien Buckskin bonnet-laird.”

I saw through his game of getting satisfaction out of John Paul thro’ goading me, and determined he should have his fill of it.  For, all in all, he had me mad enough to fight three times over.

“Set aside the gentleman,” said I, standing up and taking off MacMuir’s coat, “and call me a lubberly clout like yourself, and we will see which is the better clout.”  I put off the longsleeved jacket, and faced him with my fists doubled, crying:  “I’ll teach you, you spawn of a dunghill, to speak ill of a good man!”

A clamour of “Fecht! fecht!” arose, and some of them applauded me, calling me a “swankie,” which I believe is a compliment.  A certain sense of fairness is often to be found where least expected.  They capsized the fat, protesting browsterwife over her own stool, and were pulling Jamie’s coat from his back, when I began to suspect that a fight was not to the sniveller’s liking.  Indeed, the very look of him made me laugh out —­’twas now as mild as a summer’s morn.

“Wow,” says Jamie, “ye maun fecht wi’ a man o’ yere ain size.”

“I’ll lay a guinea that we weigh even,” said I; and suddenly remembered that I had not so much as tuppence to bless me.

Happily he did not accept the wager.  In huge disgust they hustled him from the inn and put forward the blacksmith, who was standing at the door in his leather apron.  Now I had not bargained with the smith, who seemed a well-natured enough man, and grinned broadly at the prospect.  But they made a ring on the floor, I going over it at one end, and he at the other, when a cry came from the street, those about the entrance parted, and in walked John Paul himself.  At sight of him my new adversary, who was preparing to deal me out a blow to fell an ox, dropped his arms in surprise, and held out his big hand.

“Haith!  John Paul,” he shouted heartily, forgetting me, “’tis blythe I am to see yere bonnie face ance mair!

“An’ wha are ye, Jamie Darrell,” said the captain, “to be bangin’ yere betters?  Dinna ye ken gentry when ye see’t?”

A puzzled look spread over the smith’s grimy face.

“Gentry!” says he; “nae gentry that I ken, John Paul.  Th’ fecht be but a bit o’ fun, an’ nane o’ my seekin’.”