There's a suthin' in a man wot's real devil-like when it gits the uppermost of 'im--an' 'e's that crafty born that I've known 'im to be singin' hymns one hour an' drinkin' 'isself silly the next.

'Owsomever, Mister Reay seems a decent chap, forbye 'e do give 'is time to writin' which don't appear to make 'is pot boil----" "Ah, but he will be famous!" interrupted Mary exultantly.

"I know he will!" "An' what's the good o' that ?" enquired Mrs.Twitt.

"If bein' famous is bein' printed about in the noospapers, I'd rather do without it if I wos 'im.

Parzon Arbroath got famous that way!" And she chuckled.