"May the deil catch thee," said Mac Grawler, stung to the quick,—for, like all Scots, he was a patriot;—much on the same principle as a woman who has the worst children makes the best mother.
"The deil!" said Ned, mimicking the "silver sound," as Sir W. Scott has been pleased facetiously to call the "mountain tongue,"—the Scots in general seem to think it is silver, they keep it so carefully.—"The deil, Mac Deil, you mean,—sure the gentleman must have been a Scotchman!"
The sage grinned in spite; but remembering the patience of Epictetus when a slave, and mindful also of the strong arm of Long Ned, he curbed his temper, and turned the beefsteaks with his fork.
"Well, Ned," said Augustus, throwing himself into a chair, which he drew to the fire, while he gently patted the huge limbs of Mr. Pepper, as if to admonish him that they were not so transparent as glass—"let us look at the fire; and by-the-by, it is your turn to see to the horses."
"Plague on it!" cried Ned, "it is always my turn, I think.—Hollo, you Scot of the pot, can't
