A
pot-bellied Dutch bottle of brandy which stood by, intimated either that
this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that
he meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps
both circumstances might reasonably be inferred. His night-cap and
morning-gown had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and
frugal, the honest Bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original
ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to
Derby. To sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the
eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. He looked dubiously
at Waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk
and stool from the approach of the vulgar. Nothing could give the Bailie
more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any
of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to
need assistance than to afford profit. But this was the rich young
Englishman--who knew what might be his situation?--he was the Baron's
friend too--what was to be done?
While these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor
man's visage, Waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to
make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance
of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked
the propensity to exclaim with Syphax--
Cato's a proper person to entrust
A love-tale with.
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