"Where's the little one now?"

"I reckon he's nigh about somewhere."

Ralph Ray borrowed a link from a boy who was near, and stood before
the paper that was posted upon the Cross. Just then a short,
pale-faced, elderly man, with quick eyes beneath shaggy brows, elbowed
his way between the people and came up close at Ray's side.

It was clearly not his object to read the proclamation, for after a
glance at it his eyes were turned towards Ralph's face. If he had
hoped to catch the light of an expression there he was disappointed.
Ralph read the proclamation without changing a muscle of his
countenance. He was returning the link to its owner, when the little
man reached out his long finger, and, touching the paper as it hung on
the Cross, looked up into Ralph's eyes with a cunning leer, and said,
"Unco' gude, eh?"

Ralph made no reply. As though determined to draw him into converse,
the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, "Clarendon's work
that, eh?"

There was still no response, so the speaker continued: "It'll deceive
none. It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worse
luck!"

The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which in
these troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmen
who, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring to
conceal their nationality.