Your father was an honest
burgher, and the deacon of his craft: I am sorry to see his son in so
poor a coat."
"Indifferent, sir," said Richie Moniplies, looking down on his
garments--"very indifferent; but it is the wonted livery of poor
burghers' sons in our country--one of Luckie Want's bestowing upon us
--rest us patient! The king's leaving Scotland has taken all custom
frae Edinburgh; and there is hay made at the Cross, and a dainty crop
of fouats in the Grass-market. There is as much grass grows where my
father's stall stood, as might have been a good bite for the beasts he
was used to kill."
"It is even too true," said Master George; "and while we make fortunes
here, our old neighbours and their families are starving at home. This
should be thought upon oftener.--And how came you by that broken head,
Richie?--tell me honestly."
"Troth, sir, I'se no lee about the matter," answered Moniplies. "I was
coming along the street here, and ilk ane was at me with their jests
and roguery. So I thought to mysell, ye are ower mony for me to mell
with; but let me catch ye in Barford's Park, or at the fit of the
Vennel, I could gar some of ye sing another sang. Sae ae auld hirpling
deevil of a potter behoved just to step in my way and offer me a pig,
as he said, just to put my Scotch ointment in, and I gave him a push,
as but natural, and the tottering deevil coupit ower amang his ain
pigs, and damaged a score of them.
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