"I beg yer pardon," interrupted Effie; "I wasna awar that ye were a freen’ o’ the Sergeant’s, honest man! Sae I may tell _you_ that the doctor may be here in a minute, or may be no’ till breakfast-time the morn; or he may come at twal’, at twa, or Gude kens whan! But if it’s an _ordinar’_ thing ye want for yersel’ or Adam, I can gie’t to ye:--sic as a scoorin’ dose o’ sauts or castur-ile, or rubhard pills, or seena leaf, or even a flee blister; or a few draps o’ lodamy for the grips."
The Corporal listened with all respect, and said, "I want naething for mysel’ or Adam; but Dr. Scott is requested to veesit him on his return hame, or as soon after as convenient."
"Convenient!" exclaimed Effie, "that’s no’ a word kent in Drumsylie for the doctor! He micht as well ax every gudewife in the parish if it was convenient for them to hae a son or a dochter at twal’ hours i’ the day or at twal’ at nicht on a simmer’s day or on a snawy ane; or tae ax whan it was convenient for folk tae burn their fit, break their leg, or play the mishanter wi’ themsels efter a fair. Convenient! Keep us a’! But depen’ on’t he’ll mak’ it convenient tae atten’ Mr. Mercer, nicht or mornin’, sune or early."
"I’m sorry to trouble him, for I am sure he is unco’ bothered and fashed," said the Corporal, politely.
"Fashed!" exclaimed Effie, thankful for the opportunity of expressing sympathy with her master, and her indignation at his inconsiderate patients; "naebody kens that but him and me! Fashed! the man haesna the life o’ a streyed dog or cat! There’s no’ a lameter teylor wi’ his waik fit, nor a bairn wi’ a sair wame frae eatin’ ower mony cruds or grosats, nor an auld wife hostin’ wi’ a grew o’ cauld, nor a farmer efter makin’ ower free wi’ black puddins and haggis when a mairt is kill’t--but a’ maun flee tae the doctor, ilka ane yam, yam, yammerin’, as if _he_ had the poower o’ life and death! Puir cratur! I could maist greet if I wasna sae angry, to wauk him in his first sleep in a winter’s nicht to ride aff on auld Bolus--that’s his auld decent horse, ye ken--and for what? Maybe for naething! I assure you he has a taughy fleece tae scoor in this parish!" Effie stopped, not from want of illustration, but from want of breath.