Sprott was within, upon his ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat
and clean, and set out with china and pictures, and a globe of the
earth in a brass frame. He was a big-chafted, ruddy, lusty man,
with a crooked hard look to him; and he made us not that much
civility as offer us a seat.
"Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?" says I.
"I ken nobody by such a name," says he, impatient-like.
"Since you are so particular," says I, "I will amend my question,
and ask you where we are to find in Helvoet one James Drummond,
alias Macgregor, alias James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?"
"Sir," says he, "he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my part
I wish he was."
"The young lady is that gentleman's daughter, sir," said I, "before
whom, I think you will agree with me, it is not very becoming to
discuss his character."
"I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!" cries he
in his gross voice.
"Under your favour, Mr. Sprott," said I, "this young lady is come
from Scotland seeking him, and by whatever mistake, was given the
name of your house for a direction.
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