“What was I to du, my lord?” returned Malcolm apologetically. “The only ither claes I hae, are verra fishy, an’ neither yersel’ nor my leddy cud bide them i’ the room aside ye.”
“Certainly not,” responded the marquis, as in a leisurely manner he devoured his omelette: “I was thinking of your future position as skipper of my boat.—What would you say to a kilt now?”
“Na, na, my lord,” rejoined Malcolm; “a kilt’s no seafarin’ claes. A kilt wadna du ava’, my lord.”
“You cannot surely object to the dress of your own people,” said the marquis.
“The kilt ’s weel eneuch upon a hill-side,” said Malcolm, “I dinna doobt; but faith! sea-farin’, my lord, ye wad want the trews as weel.”
“Well, go to the best tailor in the town, and order a naval suit —white ducks and a blue jacket—two suits you’ll want.”
“We s’ gar ae shuit sair s’ (satisfy us) to begin wi’, my lord. I’ll jist gang to Jamie Sangster, wha maks a’ my claes—no ’at their mony!—an’ get him to mizzur me. He’ll mak them weel eneuch for me. You’re aye sure o’ the worth o’ yer siller frae him.”
“I tell you to go to the best tailor in the town, and order two suits.”
“Na, na, my lord; there’s nae need. I canna affoord it forbye. We’re no a’ made o’ siller like yer lordship.”
“You booby! do you suppose I would tell you to order clothes I did not mean to pay for?”