Such was the headwaiter at the Craig Fernie Inn; known, far and wide, to local fame, as "Maister Bishopriggs, Mistress Inchbare's right-hand man." "What are you doing there ?" Anne asked, sharply.
Mr.Bishopriggs turned himself about on his gouty feet; waved his duster gently in the air; and looked at Anne, with a mild, paternal smile.
"Eh! Am just doostin' the things; and setin' the room in decent order for ye." "For _me ?_ Did you hear what the landlady said ?" Mr.Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a very unsteady forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in her hand.
"Never fash yoursel' aboot the landleddy!" said the sage chief of the Craig Fernie waiters.

"Your purse speaks for you, my lassie.

Pet it up!" cried Mr.Bishopriggs, waving temptation away from him with the duster.
"In wi' it into yer pocket! Sae long as the warld's the warld, I'll uphaud it any where--while there's siller in the purse, there's gude in the woman!" Anne's patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way at this.
"What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner ?" she asked, rising angrily to her feet again.
Mr.Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded to satisfy Anne that he shared the landlady's view of her position, without sharing the severity of the landlady's principles.

"There's nae man livin'," said Mr.Bishopriggs, "looks with mair indulgence at human frailty than my ain sel'.

Am I no' to be familiar wi' ye--when I'm auld eneugh to be a fether to ye, and ready to be a fether to ye till further notice?
Hech! hech! Order your bit dinner lassie.