Friend Mac Donald. O'Rell Max
resolution; and Donald, who considers he is being robbed every time anyone climbs his hills without a guide, begins to grumble.
Besides, when one is a Highlander, one does not give up a point so easily as all that. Our Caledonian resorts to diplomacy. A brilliant idea occurs to him.
"Since you will not have a guide," says he, pretending to withdraw, "good luck to you on your journey! Mind you don't miss the mysterious stone."
"What mysterious stone?" demands the Cockney.
"Oh, on the top of the Goatfell," replies Donald, "there is a stone that might well be called enchanted. When you stand upon that stone, no sound, no matter how close or how loud, can reach your ears."
"Really?" says the tourist, gaping.
"A thunderstorm might burst just above your head, and you would never hear it," added Donald, who saw that his bait was beginning to take.
"Prodigious!" cried the Londoner. "How shall I know the stone? Do tell me."
"Not easily," insinuated Donald slyly; "it is scarcely known except to guides. However, I will try to describe its position to you."
Here the Scot entered into explanations which threw the Cockney's brain into a complete muddle.
"I had better take you, after all, I think," said the bewildered tourist. "Come along."
I need not tell you that they were soon at the wonderful stone.
The Londoner took up his position on it, and begged the guide to stand a few steps off and to shout at the top of his voice.
Out Scot fell to making all sorts of contortions, placing his hands to his mouth as if to carry the sound; but not a murmur reached the ears of the tourist.
"Take a rest," he said to Donald; "you will make yourself hoarse… It is a fact that I have not heard a sound. It is prodigious! Now you go and stand on the stone, and I will shout."
They changed places.
The Cockney began to rave with all his might.
Donald did not move a muscle.
The dear Londoner made the hills ring with the sound of his voice, but his guide gazed at him as calmly as Nature that surrounded them.
"Don't you hear anything?" cried the poor tourist.
Donald was not so silly as to fall into the trap. He feigned not to hear, and kept up his impassive expression.
The Cockney continued to howl.
"Shout louder," cried Donald; "I can hear nothing."
"It's wonderful; it is enough to take one's breath away. I never saw anything so remarkable in my life!"
And putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a golden coin, and slipped it into Donald's hand.
This done, they left the marvel behind, and climbed to the summit of the Goatfell, the clever guide carefully picking out all the roughest paths, and doing his best to give his patient plenty of dangers for his money.
That night, after having made a note of all his day's adventures, the proud tourist added, as a future caution to his friends:
"Be sure and take a guide for the Goatfell!"
CHAPTER V
Resemblance of Donald to the Norman. – Donald marketing. – Bearding a Barber. – Norman Replies. – Cant. – Why the Whisky was not marked on the Hotel Bill. – New Use for the Old and New Testaments. – You should love your Enemies and not swallow them. – A modest Wish.
Friend Donald resembles the Norman very closely.
Like him, he is cunning and circumspect, with the composed exterior of Puss taking a doze.
We say in France, "Answering like a Norman." That means, "to give an evasive, ambiguous answer – neither yes nor no."
They might say in England, "Answering like a Scot," to express the same idea.
Look at Donald, with the corners of his mouth drawn back, and his eyes twinkling as he nods at you and answers Ay, or shakes his head as he says Na, na; and you will be convinced that he is compromised neither by the one nor the other.
At market the resemblance is perfect.
He strolls into the stall as if he did not want anything more than a look round. He examines the goods with a most indifferent eye, turns them over and over, and finds fault with them. He seems to say to the stall-keeper:
"You certainly could not have the impudence to ask a good price for such stuff as this."
If he buys, he pays with a protest.
When he pockets cash, on the contrary, admire the rapidity of the proceeding.
I one day heard a Norman, who had just been profiting by being in town on market-day to get shaved, say to the barber, with the most innocent air in the world:
"My word, I'm very sorry not to have a penny to give you, but my wife and I have spent all our money; I have only a halfpenny left… I will owe you till next time."
Compare this Norman with the hero of the following little anecdote which the Scotch tell.
A Scot, who sold brooms, went into a Glasgow barber's shop to get shaved.
The barber bought a broom of Donald, and, after having shaved him, asked what he owed him for the broom.
"Two pence," said Donald.
"No, no," said the barber; "it's too dear. I will give you a penny, and if you are not satisfied, you can take your broom again."
Donald pocketed the penny, and asked what he had to pay for being shaved.
"A penny," replied the barber.
"Na, na," said Donald; "I will give ye a bawbee, an' if ye are no satisfied, ye can pit my beard back again."
This is Norman to the life.
The Scot pays when he has given his signature, or when there is no help for it.
It has been said that the farthing was introduced to allow the Scotch to be generous. This is calumny; for the Scot is charitable: but if collections in Scotch churches were made in bags, there might be rather a run on the small copper coin.
If you would see still another point of resemblance between the Scot and the Norman, look at them as they indulge in their little pet transgression.
When Donald orders his glass of whisky, he is always careful to say:
"Waiter, a small whisky."
The Irishman asks for a "strong whisky," straight out, like a man.
Donald is modest, he asks for his small. That is the allowance of sober folks, and the dear fellow is one of them. But just add up at the end of the evening the number of wee draps that he has on his conscience, and you will find they make a very respectable total.
Now look at the Norman taking his cups of café tricolore after dinner.
Do not imagine that he is going to take up the three bottles of brandy, rum, and kirschwasser, and pour himself out some of their contents. No, no; he would be too much afraid of exceeding the dose. He measures it into his spoon, which he holds horizontally; and, to see the precautions he takes, you would think he was a chemist preparing a doctor's prescription.
"A teaspoonful of each," he says to you; "that is my quantity."
But how they brim over, those spoonfuls! When the overflow has fallen into the cup, he shows you the full spoon, with the remark:
"One of each kind, no more."
Scotch shrewdness expresses itself in a phraseology all its own, and of which Donald alone possesses the secret. He handles the English language with the talent of the most wily diplomatist. He has a happy knack of combining irony and humour, as the following story shows:
An English author had sent his latest production to several men of letters, requesting them to kindly