CHAPTER XXIII .-- CATCHING A TARTAR.
_Fr.

Sol._ O, prennez misericorde! ayez pitie de moy! _Pist._ Moy shall not serve, I will have forty moys; For I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat, In drops of crimson blood.
HENRY V.
From the first moment I clapped eye on the caricature thing of a coat, that Tammie Bodkin had, in my absence, shaped out for Cursecowl the butcher, I foresaw, in my own mind, that a catastrophe was brewing for us; and never did soldier gird himself to fight the French, or sailor prepare for a sea-storm, with greater alacrity, than I did to cope with the bull-dog anger, and buffet back the uproarious vengeance of our heathenish customer.
At first I thought of letting the thing take its natural course, and of threaping down Cursecowl's throat that he must have been feloniously keeping in his breath when Tammie took his measure; and, moreover, that as it was the fashion to be straight-laced, Tammie had done his utmost trying to make him look like his betters; till, my conscience checking me for such a nefarious intention, I endeavoured, as became me in the relations of man, merchant, and Christian, to solder the matter peaceably, and show him, if there was a fault committed, that there was no evil intention on my side of the house.

To this end I dispatched the bit servant wench, on the Friday afternoon, to deliver the coat, which was neatly tied up in brown paper, and directed--"Mr Cursecowl, with care," and to buy a sheep's head; bidding her, by way of being civil, give my kind compliments, and enquire how Mr and Mrs Cursecowl, and the five little Miss Cursecowls, were keeping their healths, and trusting to his honour in sending me a good article.

But have a moment's patience.
Being busy at the time, turning a pair of kuttikins for old Mr Mooleypouch the mealmonger, when the lassie came back, I had no mind of asking a sight of the sheep's head, as I aye like the little blackfaced, in preference to the white, fat, fozy Cheviot breed; but, most providentially, I catched a gliskie of the wench passing the shop window, on the road over to Jamie Coom the smith's, to get it singed, having been dispatched there by her mistress.

Running round the counter like lightning, I opened the sneck, and halooed to her to wheel to the right about, having, somehow or other, a superstitious longing to look at the article.