"Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. His blood would be sweet with it. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. “But if my manner tells! I cannot help it if that shows.
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