When we had finished our meal, the night being warm and close, I proposed that we should adjourn to the stoop—for by this time I had so far complied with the fashion, as to have a stoop or viranda along the front of my house. Mr. Hoskins, having lighted his cigar, joined us, dragging out the rocking-chair behind him, for he preferred it on all occasions while smoking in the stoop. The bailie took his seat on the bench beside me; and as soon as we were composedly arranged for conversation, he bent slightly forward, and laying his left hand on my right knee, he turned towards Mr. Hoskins, who was swinging on the chair a little in front, and said,—

“Gentlemen, I have a notion that in this contract with Mr. Bell, some o’ us have not had our wits so well gathered as was to have been desired on an occasion of such solemnity; in short, gentlemen, I have a doubt.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” replied I, jocularly; at the same time, by a glance he gave me, which I saw by the moonlight, I was persuaded he had something to ettle at me. “But what's this doubt about, bailie?”

“Ye see, gentlemen,” he resumed, “I’m no blaming you Mr. Hoskins, and every body knows well that Mr. Todd's never in the wrong.”

“Hem!” exclaimed the old man, whiffing out a long wreath of smoke, and spitting with an emphasis far beyond the railing of the stoop.

“I hope no offence,” continued the plague, “but really, Mr. Todd, you must just let a friend use a friend's freedom; I think we have been all fey in this affair. Ye see, Mr. Todd, I dinna give you all the wyte o’t, I take part of the blame to myself: I confess and allow that I am art and part.”

“I think, Mr. Waft,” said I, slightly disturbed, and wondering what was to be the upshot of such a preface—“I think, Mr. Waft, if you would tell us what ye mean first, we would then better know on whose shoulders the blame, if blame there be, should be laid. Can you, Mr. Hoskins, understand what he means?”