There
were the grave low sounds of men engaged in
busy traffic, with the laugh, the song, and the
riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to
enjoy themselves. Among the last was Harry
Wakefield, who, amidst a grinning group of smock-frocks,
hobnailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies,
was trolling forth the old ditty,
``What though my name be Roger,
Who drives the slough and cart---''
when he was interrupted by a well-known voice
saying in a high and stern voice, marked by the
sharp Highland accent, ``Harry Waakfelt---if you
be a man stand up!''
``What is the matter?---what is it?'' the guests
demanded of each other.
``It is only a d---d Scotsman,'' said Fleecebumpkin,
who was by this time very drunk, ``whom
Harry Wakefield helped to his broth to-day, who
is now come to have his cauld kail het again.''
``Harry Waakfelt,'' repeated the same ominous
summons, ``stand up, if you be a man!''
There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated
passion, which attracts attention and imposes
awe, even by the very sound. The guests
shrunk back on every side, and gazed at the Highlander
as he stood in the middle of them, his brows
bent, and his features rigid with resolution.
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