prompt:
Chapter: For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused
the echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could
hear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle
had come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alan
standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were
hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an
honest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile
in silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.

"What's this?" says he. "This is nae kind of time of night for decent
folk; and I hae nae trokings* wi' night-hawks. What brings ye here? I
have a blunderbush."

     * Dealings.

"Is that yoursel', Mr. Balfour?" returned Alan, stepping back and
looking up into the darkness. "Have a care of that blunderbuss; they're
nasty things to burst."

"What brings ye here? and whae are ye?" says my uncle, angrily.

"I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the
country-side," said Alan; "but what brings me here is another story,
being more of your affair than mine; and if ye're sure it's what ye
would like, I'll set it to a tune and sing it to you."

"And what is't?" asked my uncle.

"David," says Alan.

"What was that?" cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.

"Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?" said Alan.

There was a pause; and then, "I'm thinking I'll better let ye in," says
my uncle, doubtfully.

"I dare say that," said Alan; "but the point is, Would I go? Now I will
tell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this
doorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or
nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as
stiffnecked as yoursel', and a gentleman of better family."

This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while
digesting it, and then says he, "Weel, weel, what must be must," and
shut the window. But it took him a long time to get down-stairs, and a
still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken
with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At
last, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle
slipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or
two) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his
hands.

"And, now" says he, "mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step
nearer ye're as good as deid."

"And a very civil speech," says Alan, "to be sure."

"Na," says my uncle, "but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding,
and I'm bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other,
ye'll can name your business."

"Why," says Alan, "you that are a man of so much understanding, will
doubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae
business in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from
the Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a
ship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was
seeking wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad
that was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other
gentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from
that day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends
are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that
I could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was
your born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and
confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can
agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my
friends," added Alan, simply, "are no very well off."

My uncle cleared his throat. "I'm no very caring," says he. "He wasnae a
good lad at the best of it, and I've nae call to interfere."

"Ay, ay," said Alan, "I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don't
care, to make the ransom smaller."

"Na," said my uncle, "it's the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest
in the lad, and I'll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill
of him for what I care."

"Hoot, sir," says Alan. "Blood's thicker than water, in the deil's name!
Ye cannae desert your brother's son for the fair shame of it; and if
ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your
country-side, or I'm the more deceived."

"I'm no just very popular the way it is," returned Ebenezer; "and I
dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by
you or your friends. So that's idle talk, my buckie," says he.

"Then it'll have to be David that tells it," said Alan.

"How that?" says my uncle, sharply.

"Ou, just this way," says Alan. "My friends would doubtless keep your
nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it,
but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang
where he pleased, and be damned to him!"

"Ay, but I'm no very caring about that either," said my uncle. "I
wouldnae be muckle made up with that."

"I was thinking that," said Alan.

"And what for why?" asked Ebenezer.

"Why, Mr. Balfour," replied Alan, "by all that I could hear, there were
two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or
else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us
to keep him. It seems it's not the first; well then, it's the second;
and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket
and the pockets of my friends."

"I dinnae follow ye there," said my uncle.

"No?" said Alan. "Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well,
what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?"

My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.

"Come, sir," cried Alan. "I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman;
I bear a king's name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall
door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by
the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals."

"Eh, man," cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, "give me a meenit!
What's like wrong with ye? I'm just a plain man and nae dancing master;
and I'm tryin to be as ceevil as it's morally possible. As for that wild
talk, it's fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be
with my blunderbush?" he snarled.

"Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against
the bright steel in the hands of Alan," said the other. "Before your
jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your
breast-bane."

"Eh, man, whae's denying it?" said my uncle. "Pit it as ye please, hae't
your ain way; I'll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye'll
be wanting, and ye'll see that we'll can agree fine."

"Troth, sir," said Alan, "I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two
words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?"

"O, sirs!" cried Ebenezer. "O, sirs, me! that's no kind of language!"

"Killed or kept!" repeated Alan.

"O, keepit, keepit!" wailed my uncle. "We'll have nae bloodshed, if you
please."

"Well," says Alan, "as ye please; that'll be the dearer."

"The dearer?" cries Ebenezer. "Would ye fyle your hands wi' crime?"

"Hoot!" said Alan, "they're baith crime, whatever! And the killing's
easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad'll be a fashious* job, a
fashious, kittle business."

     * Troublesome.

"I'll have him keepit, though," returned my uncle. "I never had naething
to do with onything morally wrong; and I'm no gaun to begin to pleasure
a wild Hielandman."

"Ye're unco scrupulous," sneered Alan.

"I'm a man o' principle," said Ebenezer, simply; "and if I have to pay
for it, I'll have to pay for it. And besides," says he, "ye forget the
lad's my brother's son."

"Well, well," said Alan, "and now about the price. It's no very easy for
me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters.
I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first
off-go?"

"Hoseason!" cries my uncle, struck aback. "What for?"

"For kidnapping David," says Alan.

"It's a lee, it's a black lee!" cried my uncle. "He was never kidnapped.
He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!"

"That's no fault of mine nor yet of yours," said Alan; "nor yet of
Hoseason's, if he's a man that can be trusted."

"What do ye mean?" cried Ebenezer. "Did Hoseason tell ye?"

"Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?" cried Alan.
"Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for
yoursel' what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a
fool's bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in
your private matters. But that's past praying for; and ye must lie on
your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what
did ye pay him?"

"Has he tauld ye himsel'?" asked my uncle.

"That's my concern," said Alan.

"Weel," said my uncle, "I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the
solemn God's truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I'll be
perfec'ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the
lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket,
ye see."

"Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well," said the
lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, "Good-evening, Mr.
Balfour," said he.

And, "Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer," said I.

And, "It's a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour," added Torrance.

Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where
he was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to
stone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him
by the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen,
whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth,
where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.

There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our
success, but yet with a sort of pity for the man's shame.

"Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer," said the lawyer, "you must not be
down-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the
meanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle
of your father's wine in honour of the event." Then, turning to me and
taking me by the hand, "Mr. David," says he, "I wish you all joy in your
good fortune, which I believe to be deserved." And then to Alan, with
a spice of drollery, "Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was
most artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran my
comprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is
it George, perhaps?"

"And why should it be any of the three, sir?" quoth Alan, drawing
himself up, like one who smelt an offence.

"Only, sir, that you mentioned a king's name," replied Rankeillor; "and
as there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has
never come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism."

This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to
confess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off
to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not
till I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title
as the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was
at last prevailed upon to join our party.

By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a
good supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan
set ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next
chamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end
of which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and
I set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms
of this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his
intromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of
Shaws.

So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that
night on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the
country. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard
beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones,
so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear
of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the
former evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof
and planning the future.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Alan knocked loudly for awhile before any movement could be detected but then Ebenezer opened a window. He asked for Alan's business and Alan agreed to sing it. When Alan named David as the subject, Ebenezer at last decided that Alan should come inside. However, Alan refused, desiring to speak in view of his hidden accomplices and Ebenzer was forced to come to the doorstep. He sat on the step, warning Alan that he had a blunderbuss. Alan told the man how he and his friends had come upon the boy on the Isle of Mull and had brought him to a castle thereon. Yet, since his staying was expensive, Alan threatened that Ebenezer would never see David again if he did not pay a ransom. The uncle eagerly said how he had never cared for the boy so would pay nothing. Even after Alan threatened to tell the countryside about the careless uncle, Ebenezer did not budge. Alan mentioned that David could spread the word himself if they let him go. Alan contended that Ebenezer either had reason to pay for David's return or to make sure he never returned. Finally Ebenezer said he was sure they could agree on something. When Alan asked if Ebenezer wanted David kept or killed, Ebenezer became uncomfortable. He said there was no use killing. Alan then explained that keeping David at the castle would cost more than killing him. Agonized, Ebenezer still preferred to pay for David's keeping since, as he said, he was a "moral" man. Alan demanded to know what Ebenezer had paid Hoseason, thereby revealing that he knew about the kidnapping. Alan told him that he and Hoseason were partners. Ebenezer inquired what Hoseason had told Alan. When Alan declined to answer, Ebenezer said that Hoseason was a liar and that he had only paid him twenty pounds because Hoseason would have made more when he sold David in the Carolinas. At this, Rankeillor stepped out, followed by David and Torrance. Alan grabbed the blunderbuss and the conspirators took the old, shocked man inside. Rankeillor called for a bottle of wine and teased Alan for telling Ebenezer that he had a king's name. Alan was offended and sat off to the side for a while before joining the celebration. Rankeillor left the party, taking Ebenezer into a chamber to consult. When they returned, Ebenezer had agreed to pay David two-thirds of the yearly income of Shaws. David fell asleep on the kitchen chests, musing over his turn of fortune since the days he spent running for his life.


prompt:
Chapter: So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still
Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a
heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both
these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and
fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing
in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were
now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a
glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.

About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help
him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was
of a different mind.

"Mr. Thomson," says he, "is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quite
another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble
(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and
is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is
doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.
If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is
one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.
There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. You
will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried
for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with
a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the
gallows."

     * The Duke of Argyle.

Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply
to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. "In that case, sir,"
said I, "I would just have to be hanged--would I not?"

"My dear boy," cries he, "go in God's name, and do what you think is
right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising
you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.
Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There
are worse things in the world than to be hanged."

"Not many, sir," said I, smiling.

"Why, yes, sir," he cried, "very many. And it would be ten times better
for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently
upon a gibbet."

Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,
so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two
letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.

"This," says he, "is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a
credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and
you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good
husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,
I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way
than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer
testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and
will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well
recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the
learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better
that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of
Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord
Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any
particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to
Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you
deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the
Lord guide you, Mr. David!"

Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,
while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went
by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we
kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and
great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top
windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back
and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little
welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I
was watched as I went away.

Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either
to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were
near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days
sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it
was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now
there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be
able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.
In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,
and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to
find a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner was
this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I
would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with
me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we
were nearer tears than laughter.

We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got
near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on
Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we
both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to
where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been
agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at
which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any
that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of
Rankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we
stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.

"Well, good-bye," said Alan, and held out his left hand.

"Good-bye," said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down
hill.

Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in
my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as
I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could
have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like
any baby.

It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the
Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the
buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched
entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants
in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the
fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,
struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd
carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was
Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think
I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)
there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something
wrong.

The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of
the British Linen Company's bank.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Though the future was looking bright for David, he still wondered what he should do with Alan and what he might do for James of the Glens. He spoke to Rankeillor about these issues the next morning. Rankeillor felt that David was bound to help Mr. Thomson, but doubted that he should endanger himself in the case of James. His testimony to a Highland court would not be given much credence, he reasoned. David had thought of this argument but still believed he should try to help. Rankeillor was impressed by his nobility and urged him to follow his principles. They hurried inside so Rankeillor could write David two letters. One letter was signed to the British Linen Company, a bank, to give David credit. The second letter was for the lawyer, Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, who could represent David to the advocate in the murder case. He figured a respected man of David's namesake would be most effective. Rankeillor and Torrance left for the ferry while David and Alan started for Edinburgh. As they departed, David noticed Ebenezer watching sullenly from a top window. Walking along, David and Alan had difficulty speaking to each other as they knew they would have to part soon. They tried discussing their plans for the upcoming days. Alan would hide about the country, coming once daily to a singular spot where David or a messenger could find him. David would seek out a lawyer who was an Appin Stewart and who could thus find a ship for Alan's departure. They soon reached a spot looking over the city called Rest-and-be-Thankful. Both feeling very saddened, they repeated the plan to each other. David then gave Alan the little money he had and they shook hands good-bye. David ran down the hill to Edinburgh, refusing to look back until Alan was out of sight. He was overwhelmed by sadness and loneliness. When David reached the city, the crowd carried him to the door of the lawyer he sought. The narrator then ends the story, alerting the reader that both David and Alan handled what was in store for them well enough.


prompt:
Chapter: I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in
the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the
last time out of the door of my father's house. The sun began to shine
upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time
I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the
garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of
the dawn was beginning to arise and die away.

Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was waiting for me by the
garden gate, good man! He asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing
that I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it
kindly under his arm.

"Well, Davie, lad," said he, "I will go with you as far as the ford, to
set you on the way." And we began to walk forward in silence.

"Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?" said he, after awhile.

"Why, sir," said I, "if I knew where I was going, or what was likely
to become of me, I would tell you candidly. Essendean is a good place
indeed, and I have been very happy there; but then I have never been
anywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall
be no nearer to in Essendean than in the Kingdom of Hungary, and, to
speak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was
going I would go with a good will."

"Ay?" said Mr. Campbell. "Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell
your fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your
father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave
me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. 'So
soon,' says he, 'as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear
disposed of' (all which, Davie, hath been done), 'give my boy this
letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far
from Cramond. That is the place I came from,' he said, 'and it's where
it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,' your father
said, 'and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well
lived where he goes.'"

"The house of Shaws!" I cried. "What had my poor father to do with the
house of Shaws?"

"Nay," said Mr. Campbell, "who can tell that for a surety? But the name
of that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear--Balfours of Shaws:
an ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter
days decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his
position; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner
or the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember)
I took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and
those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire,
Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure
in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before
you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own
hand of our departed brother."

He gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: "To the hands
of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these
will be delivered by my son, David Balfour." My heart was beating hard
at this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen
years of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of
Ettrick.

"Mr. Campbell," I stammered, "and if you were in my shoes, would you
go?"

"Of a surety," said the minister, "that would I, and without pause.
A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by
Edinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and
your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your
blood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back
again and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall
be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything
that I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie," he
resumed, "it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and
set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world."

Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder
under a birch by the trackside, sate down upon it with a very long,
serious upper lip, and the sun now shining in upon us between two peaks,
put his pocket-handkerchief over his cocked hat to shelter him. There,
then, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a
considerable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged
upon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done,
he drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I
should conduct myself with its inhabitants.

"Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial," said he. "Bear ye this in
mind, that, though gentle born, ye have had a country rearing. Dinnae
shame us, Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle house, with all
these domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect,
as quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the
laird--remember he's the laird; I say no more: honour to whom honour.
It's a pleasure to obey a laird; or should be, to the young."

"Well, sir," said I, "it may be; and I'll promise you I'll try to make
it so."

"Why, very well said," replied Mr. Campbell, heartily. "And now to come
to the material, or (to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here
a little packet which contains four things." He tugged it, as he spoke,
and with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. "Of
these four things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle money
for your father's books and plenishing, which I have bought (as I have
explained from the first) in the design of re-selling at a profit to
the incoming dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and
myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round,
will likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie,
it's but a drop of water in the sea; it'll help you but a step, and
vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and
written upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the
road, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last,
which is cubical, that'll see you, it's my prayerful wish, into a better
land."

With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little
while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into
the world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard;
then held me at arm's length, looking at me with his face all working
with sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off
backward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might
have been laughable to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched
him as long as he was in sight; and he never stopped hurrying, nor once
looked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow
at my departure; and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I,
for my part, was overjoyed to get away out of that quiet country-side,
and go to a great, busy house, among rich and respected gentlefolk of my
own name and blood.

"Davie, Davie," I thought, "was ever seen such black ingratitude? Can
you forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name?
Fie, fie; think shame."

And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the
parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical,
I had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to
carry in a plaid-neuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a
shilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both
in health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of
coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink:

"TO MAKE LILLY OF THE VALLEY WATER.--Take the flowers of lilly of the
valley and distil them in sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is
occasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsey. It is
good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strengthens the memory;
and the flowers, put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill
of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which
comes from the flowers, which keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well,
and whether man or woman."

And then, in the minister's own hand, was added:

"Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, a great spooneful
in the hour."

To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter;
and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff's end and set out over the
ford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the
green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look
of Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the
kirkyard where my father and my mother lay.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The year is 1751, the month is June, and David Balfour is leaving his home at Essendean, in southeast Scotland , to make his fortune. He's seventeen. He's accompanied for a little way by Mr. Campbell, the Minister of Essendean. Davie's mother is dead and his father has also just passed away. Campbell tells Davie of "an inheritance" that Davie's father has left him: a letter of introduction to the house of Shaws. Davie is amazed: how on earth is his dad related to this house of Shaws? Campbell tells Davie that the Balfour family is a part of the greater Shaw line, an old name that's fallen somewhat on hard times. Campbell hands over the letter, which is addressed to "Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws" . Davie is absolutely thrilled to find out he has somewhere to go now that he is all alone in the world. Campbell tells Davie that it's a two-day walk to Cramond , where his relations live. He's got nothing to lose: even if the Shaws boot Davie out again, he can just walk the two days back to Campbell's manse , and Campbell will help him out. Campbell then decides to give Davie some advice: he warns him against "a considerable number of heresies" , then tells Davie how he should behave in the Shaw household. Campbell asks Davie to be "soople" - or supple, meaning flexible and adaptable - in "yon great muckle house" . Campbell reminds Davie that, though he's got "gentle" blood, he is a country lad and should obey the "laird." Laird is a Scots title for a landowner; it comes from the same root as the English word "lord," but the meaning is more specific. Campbell then passes David four things: a little cash from the sale of Davie's father's stuff; a Bible; a shilling ; and a recipe for "lily of the valley water" written in red ink on yellow paper. Davie watches Campbell leave. Campbell is so moved by their parting that he shouts goodbye and runs away. Davie wants to laugh, but he also feels guilty: Campbell is clearly going to miss him, but Davie is psyched to start a new adventure with his highborn relations, the Shaws. Davie reads the lily of the valley water recipe. It is supposed to be good for restoring speech, curing gout, and improving memory, among other things. Davie laughs about this, but "tremulously" . Davie sets off. He looks back at his small town and the churchyard where his father and mother are buried.


prompt:
Chapter: On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw
all the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst
of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like
a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying
anchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I
could distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my
mouth.

Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a
rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to
another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till
I came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and
wonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time;
an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the
other the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope's-hats. The pride of
life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the
hearing of that merry music.

A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began
to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a
word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I
thought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that
all dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place
to which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the
same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was
something strange about the Shaws itself.

The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries;
and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his
cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the
house of Shaws.

He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others.

"Ay" said he. "What for?"

"It's a great house?" I asked.

"Doubtless," says he. "The house is a big, muckle house."

"Ay," said I, "but the folk that are in it?"

"Folk?" cried he. "Are ye daft? There's nae folk there--to call folk."

"What?" say I; "not Mr. Ebenezer?"

"Ou, ay" says the man; "there's the laird, to be sure, if it's him
you're wanting. What'll like be your business, mannie?"

"I was led to think that I would get a situation," I said, looking as
modest as I could.

"What?" cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse
started; and then, "Well, mannie," he added, "it's nane of my affairs;
but ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye'll take a word from me, ye'll
keep clear of the Shaws."

The next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful
white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well
that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man
was Mr. Balfour of the Shaws.

"Hoot, hoot, hoot," said the barber, "nae kind of a man, nae kind of a
man at all;" and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was;
but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next
customer no wiser than he came.

I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more
indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left
the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all
the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what
sort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the
wayside? If an hour's walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I
had left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell's.
But when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me
to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound,
out of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked
the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept
asking my way and still kept advancing.

It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking
woman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual
question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had
just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare
upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant
round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and
the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared
to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of
the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank.
"That!" I cried.

The woman's face lit up with a malignant anger. "That is the house of
Shaws!" she cried. "Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it;
blood shall bring it down. See here!" she cried again--"I spit upon
the ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the
laird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and
nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him
and his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or
bairn--black, black be their fall!"

And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song,
turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my
hair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled
at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest
me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.

I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked,
the pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn
bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of
rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the
barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.

Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the
ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e'en. At last the sun
went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of
smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke
of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and
cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this
comforted my heart.

So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my
direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place
of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone
uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon
the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished;
instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across
with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of
avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the
pillars, and went wandering on toward the house.

The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the
one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been
the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky
with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were
unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.

The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower
windows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the
changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace
I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek
new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father's house on
Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away,
and the door open to a beggar's knock!

I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one
rattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits;
but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.

The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece
of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart
under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house
had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing
stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.
By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I
could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the
seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have
held his breath.

I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand,
and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout
out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough
right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man's head
in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the
first-storey windows.

"It's loaded," said a voice.

"I have come here with a letter," I said, "to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of
Shaws. Is he here?"

"From whom is it?" asked the man with the blunderbuss.

"That is neither here nor there," said I, for I was growing very wroth.

"Well," was the reply, "ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off
with ye."

"I will do no such thing," I cried. "I will deliver it into Mr.
Balfour's hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of
introduction."

"A what?" cried the voice, sharply.

I repeated what I had said.

"Who are ye, yourself?" was the next question, after a considerable
pause.

"I am not ashamed of my name," said I. "They call me David Balfour."

At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle
on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a
curious change of voice, that the next question followed:

"Is your father dead?"

I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer,
but stood staring.

"Ay," the man resumed, "he'll be dead, no doubt; and that'll be what
brings ye chapping to my door." Another pause, and then defiantly,
"Well, man," he said, "I'll let ye in;" and he disappeared from the
window.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's the morning of the second day of Davie's long walk. He can finally see Edinburgh in the distance. He asks for directions to the town of Cramond from a local shepherd. Davie keeps walking and reaches the parish of Cramond. He starts asking about the house of Shaws. He notices that when he mentions the house of Shaws people start acting a little weird. Could there be something wrong with the Shaws? Davie sees someone coming down the road with a cart and decides to asks the fellow about the house of Shaws. The fellow says that the house is pretty big, but as for the people there - well, there is the lord, Ebenezer, but decent people like Davie should keep clear. The next person Davie speaks to is a barber, and he agrees with the cartman that Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws is "nae kind of a man, nae kind of a man at all" . Davie starts to feel unsettled by these comments, which are vague enough to leave lots of room to the imagination. Still, he's got his pride, so he keeps going. Finally, just at sundown, Davie meets a bitter-looking woman. She points to a house at the bottom of the next valley and starts yelling. She tells Davie that, if he sees Ebenezer , Davie should tell him that this is the 1,219th time that Jennet Clouston has cursed his household. By now Davie is really feeling unnerved. He sits down and stares at the house of the Shaws. The thing is, while the countryside surrounding the house is totally beautiful, the house itself is like a ruins. The sun sets and Davie is starting to feel hungry. He sees a thin line of smoke rising from the house of Shaws and decides that there must be someone living there after all. So he goes to knock on the door. No one answers. He knocks again and listens to the stillness, but it's as though "whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have held his breath" . Davie starts getting a little ticked off: he's come all this way, after all. So he starts kicking and punching the door and calling for Mr. Balfour. He finally gets an answer: a man in a nightcap leans out a window above him, holding a "blunderbuss" . Davie tells the man that he has a letter of introduction for Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws, which he plans to deliver in person. Davie then announces himself as David Balfour. This visibly surprises the nightcapped man, who asks Davie if his father has died. Davie doesn't reply to this and the man says that Davie's father must have died if Davie is at his door. He offers to let Davie in.


prompt:
Chapter: Presently there came a great rattling of chains and bolts, and the
door was cautiously opened and shut to again behind me as soon as I had
passed.

"Go into the kitchen and touch naething," said the voice; and while the
person of the house set himself to replacing the defences of the door, I
groped my way forward and entered the kitchen.

The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I
think I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves;
the table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and
a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another
thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests
arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.

As soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean,
stooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have
been anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel,
and so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat,
over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most distressed
and even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor
look me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was
more than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable
serving-man, who should have been left in charge of that big house upon
board wages.

"Are ye sharp-set?" he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee.
"Ye can eat that drop parritch?"

I said I feared it was his own supper.

"O," said he, "I can do fine wanting it. I'll take the ale, though, for
it slockens (moistens) my cough." He drank the cup about half out, still
keeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his hand.
"Let's see the letter," said he.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

"And who do ye think I am?" says he. "Give me Alexander's letter."

"You know my father's name?"

"It would be strange if I didnae," he returned, "for he was my born
brother; and little as ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good
parritch, I'm your born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my born nephew. So
give us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte."

If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and
disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears. As it was, I could
find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and
sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as ever a
young man had.

Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and
over in his hands.

"Do ye ken what's in it?" he asked, suddenly.

"You see for yourself, sir," said I, "that the seal has not been
broken."

"Ay," said he, "but what brought you here?"

"To give the letter," said I.

"No," says he, cunningly, "but ye'll have had some hopes, nae doubt?"

"I confess, sir," said I, "when I was told that I had kinsfolk
well-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in
my life. But I am no beggar; I look for no favours at your hands, and
I want none that are not freely given. For as poor as I appear, I have
friends of my own that will be blithe to help me."

"Hoot-toot!" said Uncle Ebenezer, "dinnae fly up in the snuff at me.
We'll agree fine yet. And, Davie, my man, if you're done with that bit
parritch, I could just take a sup of it myself. Ay," he continued,
as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, "they're fine,
halesome food--they're grand food, parritch." He murmured a little grace
to himself and fell to. "Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind;
he was a hearty, if not a great eater; but as for me, I could never
do mair than pyke at food." He took a pull at the small beer, which
probably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran
thus: "If ye're dry ye'll find water behind the door."

To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and
looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart. He, on his part,
continued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw
out little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun
stockings. Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our
eyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man's pocket could have
shown more lively signals of distress. This set me in a muse, whether
his timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company; and
whether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might pass off, and my uncle
change into an altogether different man. From this I was awakened by his
sharp voice.

"Your father's been long dead?" he asked.

"Three weeks, sir," said I.

"He was a secret man, Alexander--a secret, silent man," he continued.
"He never said muckle when he was young. He'll never have spoken muckle
of me?"

"I never knew, sir, till you told it me yourself, that he had any
brother."

"Dear me, dear me!" said Ebenezer. "Nor yet of Shaws, I dare say?"

"Not so much as the name, sir," said I.

"To think o' that!" said he. "A strange nature of a man!" For all that,
he seemed singularly satisfied, but whether with himself, or me, or
with this conduct of my father's, was more than I could read. Certainly,
however, he seemed to be outgrowing that distaste, or ill-will, that he
had conceived at first against my person; for presently he jumped up,
came across the room behind me, and hit me a smack upon the shoulder.
"We'll agree fine yet!" he cried. "I'm just as glad I let you in. And
now come awa' to your bed."

To my surprise, he lit no lamp or candle, but set forth into the dark
passage, groped his way, breathing deeply, up a flight of steps, and
paused before a door, which he unlocked. I was close upon his heels,
having stumbled after him as best I might; and then he bade me go in,
for that was my chamber. I did as he bid, but paused after a few steps,
and begged a light to go to bed with.

"Hoot-toot!" said Uncle Ebenezer, "there's a fine moon."

"Neither moon nor star, sir, and pit-mirk,"* said I. "I cannae see the
bed."

     * Dark as the pit.

"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said he. "Lights in a house is a thing I dinnae
agree with. I'm unco feared of fires. Good-night to ye, Davie, my man."
And before I had time to add a further protest, he pulled the door to,
and I heard him lock me in from the outside.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. The room was as cold as a well,
and the bed, when I had found my way to it, as damp as a peat-hag; but
by good fortune I had caught up my bundle and my plaid, and rolling
myself in the latter, I lay down upon the floor under lee of the big
bedstead, and fell speedily asleep.

With the first peep of day I opened my eyes, to find myself in a great
chamber, hung with stamped leather, furnished with fine embroidered
furniture, and lit by three fair windows. Ten years ago, or perhaps
twenty, it must have been as pleasant a room to lie down or to awake in
as a man could wish; but damp, dirt, disuse, and the mice and spiders
had done their worst since then. Many of the window-panes, besides, were
broken; and indeed this was so common a feature in that house, that I
believe my uncle must at some time have stood a siege from his indignant
neighbours--perhaps with Jennet Clouston at their head.

Meanwhile the sun was shining outside; and being very cold in that
miserable room, I knocked and shouted till my gaoler came and let me
out. He carried me to the back of the house, where was a draw-well, and
told me to "wash my face there, if I wanted;" and when that was done,
I made the best of my own way back to the kitchen, where he had lit the
fire and was making the porridge. The table was laid with two bowls and
two horn spoons, but the same single measure of small beer. Perhaps my
eye rested on this particular with some surprise, and perhaps my uncle
observed it; for he spoke up as if in answer to my thought, asking me if
I would like to drink ale--for so he called it.

I told him such was my habit, but not to put himself about.

"Na, na," said he; "I'll deny you nothing in reason."

He fetched another cup from the shelf; and then, to my great surprise,
instead of drawing more beer, he poured an accurate half from one cup
to the other. There was a kind of nobleness in this that took my breath
away; if my uncle was certainly a miser, he was one of that thorough
breed that goes near to make the vice respectable.

When we had made an end of our meal, my uncle Ebenezer unlocked a
drawer, and drew out of it a clay pipe and a lump of tobacco, from which
he cut one fill before he locked it up again. Then he sat down in the
sun at one of the windows and silently smoked. From time to time his
eyes came coasting round to me, and he shot out one of his questions.
Once it was, "And your mother?" and when I had told him that she, too,
was dead, "Ay, she was a bonnie lassie!" Then, after another long pause,
"Whae were these friends o' yours?"

I told him they were different gentlemen of the name of Campbell;
though, indeed, there was only one, and that the minister, that had ever
taken the least note of me; but I began to think my uncle made too light
of my position, and finding myself all alone with him, I did not wish
him to suppose me helpless.

He seemed to turn this over in his mind; and then, "Davie, my man," said
he, "ye've come to the right bit when ye came to your uncle Ebenezer.
I've a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the right by you;
but while I'm taking a bit think to mysel' of what's the best thing to
put you to--whether the law, or the meenistry, or maybe the army, whilk
is what boys are fondest of--I wouldnae like the Balfours to be humbled
before a wheen Hieland Campbells, and I'll ask you to keep your tongue
within your teeth. Nae letters; nae messages; no kind of word to
onybody; or else--there's my door."

"Uncle Ebenezer," said I, "I've no manner of reason to suppose you mean
anything but well by me. For all that, I would have you to know that I
have a pride of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came seeking
you; and if you show me your door again, I'll take you at the word."

He seemed grievously put out. "Hoots-toots," said he, "ca' cannie,
man--ca' cannie! Bide a day or two. I'm nae warlock, to find a fortune
for you in the bottom of a parritch bowl; but just you give me a day or
two, and say naething to naebody, and as sure as sure, I'll do the right
by you."

"Very well," said I, "enough said. If you want to help me, there's no
doubt but I'll be glad of it, and none but I'll be grateful."

It seemed to me (too soon, I dare say) that I was getting the upper
hand of my uncle; and I began next to say that I must have the bed and
bedclothes aired and put to sun-dry; for nothing would make me sleep in
such a pickle.

"Is this my house or yours?" said he, in his keen voice, and then all of
a sudden broke off. "Na, na," said he, "I didnae mean that. What's mine
is yours, Davie, my man, and what's yours is mine. Blood's thicker than
water; and there's naebody but you and me that ought the name." And
then on he rambled about the family, and its ancient greatness, and his
father that began to enlarge the house, and himself that stopped the
building as a sinful waste; and this put it in my head to give him
Jennet Clouston's message.

"The limmer!" he cried. "Twelve hunner and fifteen--that's every day
since I had the limmer rowpit!* Dod, David, I'll have her roasted on red
peats before I'm by with it! A witch--a proclaimed witch! I'll aff and
see the session clerk."

     * Sold up.

And with that he opened a chest, and got out a very old and
well-preserved blue coat and waistcoat, and a good enough beaver hat,
both without lace. These he threw on any way, and taking a staff from
the cupboard, locked all up again, and was for setting out, when a
thought arrested him.

"I cannae leave you by yoursel' in the house," said he. "I'll have to
lock you out."

The blood came to my face. "If you lock me out," I said, "it'll be the
last you'll see of me in friendship."

He turned very pale, and sucked his mouth in.

"This is no the way," he said, looking wickedly at a corner of the
floor--"this is no the way to win my favour, David."

"Sir," says I, "with a proper reverence for your age and our common
blood, I do not value your favour at a boddle's purchase. I was brought
up to have a good conceit of myself; and if you were all the uncle, and
all the family, I had in the world ten times over, I wouldn't buy your
liking at such prices."

Uncle Ebenezer went and looked out of the window for awhile. I could
see him all trembling and twitching, like a man with palsy. But when he
turned round, he had a smile upon his face.

"Well, well," said he, "we must bear and forbear. I'll no go; that's all
that's to be said of it."

"Uncle Ebenezer," I said, "I can make nothing out of this. You use me
like a thief; you hate to have me in this house; you let me see it,
every word and every minute: it's not possible that you can like me; and
as for me, I've spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man.
Why do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back--let me gang back to
the friends I have, and that like me!"

"Na, na; na, na," he said, very earnestly. "I like you fine; we'll agree
fine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldnae let you leave the
way ye came. Bide here quiet, there's a good lad; just you bide here
quiet a bittie, and ye'll find that we agree."

"Well, sir," said I, after I had thought the matter out in silence,
"I'll stay awhile. It's more just I should be helped by my own blood
than strangers; and if we don't agree, I'll do my best it shall be
through no fault of mine."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The door opens and Davie goes in, only to be told to go into the kitchen and not to touch anything. The nightcapped man closes and relocks the door behind Davie, then joins him in the kitchen. Davie gets a better look at him: he is thin, stooped, grey, unshaven, and somewhere between fifty and seventy. Davie thinks he looks like a servant - and a bad one, at that. The guy asks if Davie is hungry and offers him porridge ) while taking a mug of beer for himself. The guy wants Davie's letter; Davie won't give it to anyone but Ebenezer. "Who de ye think I am?" answers the man. It's his uncle! Davie is immensely disappointed at this news, and he wants to cry but manages not to. Instead, he silently hands over the letter to Ebenezer. Ebenezer asks if Davie "kens" what's in the letter? Davie admits that, when he heard he had rich relations, he was hopeful of help, but he's not a beggar, if that's what Ebenezer is asking. During this whole conversation, Ebenezer is working hard to avoid meeting Davie's eyes. Davie wonders if this is because Ebenezer has lived alone too long. Ebenezer claims that Davie's father, Alexander, was secretive. Davie admits that he didn't know that his father had a brother until after his death. Ebenezer seems happy about this news, then offers to show Davie to bed. Ebenezer says that he doesn't believe in lighting houses, so keeps the old place in complete darkness. He shows Davie to a cold, dark, damp room and locks him in from the outside. The next morning, Ebenezer lets Davie out of his room and the two have breakfast together: beer and porridge again. Ebenezer asks after Davie's mother and his friends. Davie tells Ebenezer about "different gentlemen" named Campbell . Ebenezer tells Davie that family is very important to him, and that if Davie will give him a day or two and will "say naething to naebody," he'll "do right" by Davie. Davie says that he'll be very grateful. He then asks if he can put his bed sheets out to dry because they were damp the night before. Ebenezer seems a little angry at this request , but he soon changes his tune and reminds Davie that the two of them belong to the same family. Davie passes along Jennet Clouston's curses, which sends Ebenezer into a rage. He gets dressed to go out. Ebenezer tells Davie that when he's not home he'll have to lock Davie out of the house. Davie won't stand for this. He complains that Ebenezer doesn't even seem to like him, so he can't imagine why Ebenezer is keeping him there. Again, Ebenezer seems very angry, but he hides it quickly and protests that he likes Davie just fine. Ebenezer really seems to want Davie to stay at the house of Shaws.


prompt:
Chapter: For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the
porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and
small beer was my uncle's diet. He spoke but little, and that in the
same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and
when I sought to lead him to talk about my future, slipped out of it
again. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go,
I found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took
great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed, the time passed so lightly in
this good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence
at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing
hide and seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust.

One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on
the fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker's) plainly written
by my father's hand and thus conceived: "To my brother Ebenezer on his
fifth birthday." Now, what puzzled me was this: That, as my father was of
course the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error,
or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear
manly hand of writing.

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many
interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this
notion of my father's hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I
went back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small
beer, the first thing I said to Uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my
father had not been very quick at his book.

"Alexander? No him!" was the reply. "I was far quicker mysel'; I was a
clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could."

This puzzled me yet more; and a thought coming into my head, I asked if
he and my father had been twins.

He jumped upon his stool, and the horn spoon fell out of his hand upon
the floor. "What gars ye ask that?" he said, and he caught me by the
breast of the jacket, and looked this time straight into my eyes:
his own were little and light, and bright like a bird's, blinking and
winking strangely.

"What do you mean?" I asked, very calmly, for I was far stronger than
he, and not easily frightened. "Take your hand from my jacket. This is
no way to behave."

My uncle seemed to make a great effort upon himself. "Dod man, David,"
he said, "ye should-nae speak to me about your father. That's where the
mistake is." He sat awhile and shook, blinking in his plate: "He was all
the brother that ever I had," he added, but with no heart in his voice;
and then he caught up his spoon and fell to supper again, but still
shaking.

Now this last passage, this laying of hands upon my person and
sudden profession of love for my dead father, went so clean beyond my
comprehension that it put me into both fear and hope. On the one hand,
I began to think my uncle was perhaps insane and might be dangerous;
on the other, there came up into my mind (quite unbidden by me and even
discouraged) a story like some ballad I had heard folk singing, of a
poor lad that was a rightful heir and a wicked kinsman that tried
to keep him from his own. For why should my uncle play a part with a
relative that came, almost a beggar, to his door, unless in his heart he
had some cause to fear him?

With this notion, all unacknowledged, but nevertheless getting firmly
settled in my head, I now began to imitate his covert looks; so that
we sat at table like a cat and a mouse, each stealthily observing the
other. Not another word had he to say to me, black or white, but was
busy turning something secretly over in his mind; and the longer we
sat and the more I looked at him, the more certain I became that the
something was unfriendly to myself.

When he had cleared the platter, he got out a single pipeful of tobacco,
just as in the morning, turned round a stool into the chimney corner,
and sat awhile smoking, with his back to me.

"Davie," he said, at length, "I've been thinking;" then he paused, and
said it again. "There's a wee bit siller that I half promised ye before
ye were born," he continued; "promised it to your father. O, naething
legal, ye understand; just gentlemen daffing at their wine. Well, I
keepit that bit money separate--it was a great expense, but a promise
is a promise--and it has grown by now to be a matter of just
precisely--just exactly"--and here he paused and stumbled--"of just
exactly forty pounds!" This last he rapped out with a sidelong glance
over his shoulder; and the next moment added, almost with a scream,
"Scots!"

The pound Scots being the same thing as an English shilling, the
difference made by this second thought was considerable; I could see,
besides, that the whole story was a lie, invented with some end which
it puzzled me to guess; and I made no attempt to conceal the tone of
raillery in which I answered--

"O, think again, sir! Pounds sterling, I believe!"

"That's what I said," returned my uncle: "pounds sterling! And if you'll
step out-by to the door a minute, just to see what kind of a night it
is, I'll get it out to ye and call ye in again."

I did his will, smiling to myself in my contempt that he should think I
was so easily to be deceived. It was a dark night, with a few stars low
down; and as I stood just outside the door, I heard a hollow moaning
of wind far off among the hills. I said to myself there was something
thundery and changeful in the weather, and little knew of what a vast
importance that should prove to me before the evening passed.

When I was called in again, my uncle counted out into my hand seven and
thirty golden guinea pieces; the rest was in his hand, in small gold and
silver; but his heart failed him there, and he crammed the change into
his pocket.

"There," said he, "that'll show you! I'm a queer man, and strange wi'
strangers; but my word is my bond, and there's the proof of it."

Now, my uncle seemed so miserly that I was struck dumb by this sudden
generosity, and could find no words in which to thank him.

"No a word!" said he. "Nae thanks; I want nae thanks. I do my duty. I'm
no saying that everybody would have done it; but for my part (though
I'm a careful body, too) it's a pleasure to me to do the right by my
brother's son; and it's a pleasure to me to think that now we'll agree
as such near friends should."

I spoke him in return as handsomely as I was able; but all the while
I was wondering what would come next, and why he had parted with his
precious guineas; for as to the reason he had given, a baby would have
refused it.

Presently he looked towards me sideways.

"And see here," says he, "tit for tat."

I told him I was ready to prove my gratitude in any reasonable degree,
and then waited, looking for some monstrous demand. And yet, when
at last he plucked up courage to speak, it was only to tell me (very
properly, as I thought) that he was growing old and a little broken, and
that he would expect me to help him with the house and the bit garden.

I answered, and expressed my readiness to serve.

"Well," he said, "let's begin." He pulled out of his pocket a rusty key.
"There," says he, "there's the key of the stair-tower at the far end of
the house. Ye can only win into it from the outside, for that part of
the house is no finished. Gang ye in there, and up the stairs, and bring
me down the chest that's at the top. There's papers in't," he added.

"Can I have a light, sir?" said I.

"Na," said he, very cunningly. "Nae lights in my house."

"Very well, sir," said I. "Are the stairs good?"

"They're grand," said he; and then, as I was going, "Keep to the wall,"
he added; "there's nae bannisters. But the stairs are grand underfoot."

Out I went into the night. The wind was still moaning in the distance,
though never a breath of it came near the house of Shaws. It had fallen
blacker than ever; and I was glad to feel along the wall, till I came
the length of the stairtower door at the far end of the unfinished wing.
I had got the key into the keyhole and had just turned it, when all upon
a sudden, without sound of wind or thunder, the whole sky lighted up
with wild fire and went black again. I had to put my hand over my eyes
to get back to the colour of the darkness; and indeed I was already half
blinded when I stepped into the tower.

It was so dark inside, it seemed a body could scarce breathe; but I
pushed out with foot and hand, and presently struck the wall with the
one, and the lowermost round of the stair with the other. The wall, by
the touch, was of fine hewn stone; the steps too, though somewhat steep
and narrow, were of polished masonwork, and regular and solid underfoot.
Minding my uncle's word about the bannisters, I kept close to the tower
side, and felt my way in the pitch darkness with a beating heart.

The house of Shaws stood some five full storeys high, not counting
lofts. Well, as I advanced, it seemed to me the stair grew airier and a
thought more lightsome; and I was wondering what might be the cause of
this change, when a second blink of the summer lightning came and went.
If I did not cry out, it was because fear had me by the throat; and if I
did not fall, it was more by Heaven's mercy than my own strength. It was
not only that the flash shone in on every side through breaches in the
wall, so that I seemed to be clambering aloft upon an open scaffold, but
the same passing brightness showed me the steps were of unequal length,
and that one of my feet rested that moment within two inches of the
well.

This was the grand stair! I thought; and with the thought, a gust of
a kind of angry courage came into my heart. My uncle had sent me here,
certainly to run great risks, perhaps to die. I swore I would settle
that "perhaps," if I should break my neck for it; got me down upon my
hands and knees; and as slowly as a snail, feeling before me every
inch, and testing the solidity of every stone, I continued to ascend
the stair. The darkness, by contrast with the flash, appeared to have
redoubled; nor was that all, for my ears were now troubled and my mind
confounded by a great stir of bats in the top part of the tower, and the
foul beasts, flying downwards, sometimes beat about my face and body.

The tower, I should have said, was square; and in every corner the step
was made of a great stone of a different shape to join the flights.
Well, I had come close to one of these turns, when, feeling forward
as usual, my hand slipped upon an edge and found nothing but emptiness
beyond it. The stair had been carried no higher; to set a stranger
mounting it in the darkness was to send him straight to his death; and
(although, thanks to the lightning and my own precautions, I was safe
enough) the mere thought of the peril in which I might have stood, and
the dreadful height I might have fallen from, brought out the sweat upon
my body and relaxed my joints.

But I knew what I wanted now, and turned and groped my way down again,
with a wonderful anger in my heart. About half-way down, the wind sprang
up in a clap and shook the tower, and died again; the rain followed; and
before I had reached the ground level it fell in buckets. I put out my
head into the storm, and looked along towards the kitchen. The door,
which I had shut behind me when I left, now stood open, and shed a
little glimmer of light; and I thought I could see a figure standing
in the rain, quite still, like a man hearkening. And then there came
a blinding flash, which showed me my uncle plainly, just where I had
fancied him to stand; and hard upon the heels of it, a great tow-row of
thunder.

Now, whether my uncle thought the crash to be the sound of my fall, or
whether he heard in it God's voice denouncing murder, I will leave you
to guess. Certain it is, at least, that he was seized on by a kind of
panic fear, and that he ran into the house and left the door open behind
him. I followed as softly as I could, and, coming unheard into the
kitchen, stood and watched him.

He had found time to open the corner cupboard and bring out a great case
bottle of aqua vitae, and now sat with his back towards me at the table.
Ever and again he would be seized with a fit of deadly shuddering and
groan aloud, and carrying the bottle to his lips, drink down the raw
spirits by the mouthful.

I stepped forward, came close behind him where he sat, and suddenly
clapping my two hands down upon his shoulders--"Ah!" cried I.

My uncle gave a kind of broken cry like a sheep's bleat, flung up his
arms, and tumbled to the floor like a dead man. I was somewhat shocked
at this; but I had myself to look to first of all, and did not hesitate
to let him lie as he had fallen. The keys were hanging in the cupboard;
and it was my design to furnish myself with arms before my uncle should
come again to his senses and the power of devising evil. In the cupboard
were a few bottles, some apparently of medicine; a great many bills and
other papers, which I should willingly enough have rummaged, had I had
the time; and a few necessaries that were nothing to my purpose. Thence
I turned to the chests. The first was full of meal; the second of
moneybags and papers tied into sheaves; in the third, with many
other things (and these for the most part clothes) I found a rusty,
ugly-looking Highland dirk without the scabbard. This, then, I concealed
inside my waistcoat, and turned to my uncle.

He lay as he had fallen, all huddled, with one knee up and one arm
sprawling abroad; his face had a strange colour of blue, and he seemed
to have ceased breathing. Fear came on me that he was dead; then I
got water and dashed it in his face; and with that he seemed to come a
little to himself, working his mouth and fluttering his eyelids. At last
he looked up and saw me, and there came into his eyes a terror that was
not of this world.

"Come, come," said I; "sit up."

"Are ye alive?" he sobbed. "O man, are ye alive?"

"That am I," said I. "Small thanks to you!"

He had begun to seek for his breath with deep sighs. "The blue phial,"
said he--"in the aumry--the blue phial." His breath came slower still.

I ran to the cupboard, and, sure enough, found there a blue phial
of medicine, with the dose written on it on a paper, and this I
administered to him with what speed I might.

"It's the trouble," said he, reviving a little; "I have a trouble,
Davie. It's the heart."

I set him on a chair and looked at him. It is true I felt some pity for
a man that looked so sick, but I was full besides of righteous anger;
and I numbered over before him the points on which I wanted explanation:
why he lied to me at every word; why he feared that I should leave him;
why he disliked it to be hinted that he and my father were twins--"Is
that because it is true?" I asked; why he had given me money to which I
was convinced I had no claim; and, last of all, why he had tried to kill
me. He heard me all through in silence; and then, in a broken voice,
begged me to let him go to bed.

"I'll tell ye the morn," he said; "as sure as death I will."

And so weak was he that I could do nothing but consent. I locked him
into his room, however, and pocketed the key, and then returning to
the kitchen, made up such a blaze as had not shone there for many a long
year, and wrapping myself in my plaid, lay down upon the chests and fell
asleep.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After this direct confrontation, Davie is pretty surprised that the rest of the day isn't so bad. After breakfast, he finds Ebenezer's library, which he spends the rest of the afternoon perusing. Davie finds something a little odd, though. On the front page of a pamphlet ), there is an inscription in his dad's handwriting to his brother Ebenezer on his fifth birthday. But Davie is sure that Alexander was the younger brother. So either his dad learned to write really well when he was around four years old, or else he must have gotten Ebenezer's age wrong. Davie later asks Ebenezer if his father was an exceptionally quick student, and Ebenezer says no. Davie asks Ebenezer if he and Alexander were twins, and Ebenezer jumps up and grabs Davie by his jacket. Davie tells Ebenezer to let him go and asks what this is all about. Ebenezer pulls himself together and asks Davie not to speak of Alexander any more: it's too painful for him. Davie begins to wonder if his uncle is either crazy or trying to keep him from something that is rightfully his. Ebenezer tells Davie that he's set aside some money for him, from before his birth. It's 40 pounds - and there's a weird little negotiation here. At first, Ebenezer says that he's promised Davie 40 Scottish pounds, which would have been worth about 2 English pounds. But Davie says, "Pounds sterling, I believe!" , and his uncle agrees, even though 40 English pounds would be about 20 times the value of Ebenezer's original offer. Ebenezer sends Davie out the door while he counts out this money. Davie is sure that Ebenezer is lying to him about this whole setting-aside-money story, but he's okay with going along with it for now. So he steps outside and notices that a storm is coming in. Ebenezer calls Davie back in and gives him 37 guinea pieces . Davie is amazed by Ebenezer's sudden generosity when he is so obviously a terrible miser. Ebenezer says that, now, Davie owes him. Davie promises to do whatever Ebenezer wants . Ebenezer asks for help with the house and garden, as he's getting old. Davie accepts. Ebenezer suggests they start now and sends Davie - still in the dark, because Ebenezer hates lights in the house - to a tower at the end of the house for some papers. Davie dutifully heads outside to the stairs to the tower. It's pitch black outside and he has to feel his way along the wall to find the staircase, which is uneven and dangerous underfoot. What makes the staircase even more dangerous is that it is unfinished! It only rises to a certain point. Fortunately, a flash of lighting lights up the scene, preventing Davie from falling five stories straight down. Davie comes back down the stairs and another flash of lightning exposes his uncle standing there in the courtyard watching him. Ebenezer panics at the sound of a crash of thunder and runs back into the house, leaving the door open behind him. Davie sneaks in quietly and, when Ebenezer's back is turned, claps his hand on Ebenezer's shoulders. Ebenezer is startled and faints. Davie takes this opportunity to rummage around in closets looking for weapons. He finds a "Highland dirk" - a kind of long knife which he grabs. Ebenezer, meanwhile, slowly regains consciousness. He's obviously terrified and asks for a blue bottle of medicine for his heart, which Davie gives him. Davie is really angry, what with the whole attempted murder thing, and sits staring at his uncle for a while. The old man begs to be allowed to explain everything in the morning. Davie lets Ebenezer go to bed, locks Ebenezer in his room, and sleeps in front of the fire in the kitchen.


prompt:
Chapter: Much rain fell in the night; and the next morning there blew a bitter
wintry wind out of the north-west, driving scattered clouds. For all
that, and before the sun began to peep or the last of the stars had
vanished, I made my way to the side of the burn, and had a plunge in a
deep whirling pool. All aglow from my bath, I sat down once more
beside the fire, which I replenished, and began gravely to consider my
position.

There was now no doubt about my uncle's enmity; there was no doubt I
carried my life in my hand, and he would leave no stone unturned that
he might compass my destruction. But I was young and spirited, and
like most lads that have been country-bred, I had a great opinion of my
shrewdness. I had come to his door no better than a beggar and little
more than a child; he had met me with treachery and violence; it would
be a fine consummation to take the upper hand, and drive him like a herd
of sheep.

I sat there nursing my knee and smiling at the fire; and I saw myself in
fancy smell out his secrets one after another, and grow to be that man's
king and ruler. The warlock of Essendean, they say, had made a mirror in
which men could read the future; it must have been of other stuff than
burning coal; for in all the shapes and pictures that I sat and gazed
at, there was never a ship, never a seaman with a hairy cap, never a big
bludgeon for my silly head, or the least sign of all those tribulations
that were ripe to fall on me.

Presently, all swollen with conceit, I went up-stairs and gave my
prisoner his liberty. He gave me good-morning civilly; and I gave the
same to him, smiling down upon him, from the heights of my sufficiency.
Soon we were set to breakfast, as it might have been the day before.

"Well, sir," said I, with a jeering tone, "have you nothing more to say
to me?" And then, as he made no articulate reply, "It will be time,
I think, to understand each other," I continued. "You took me for
a country Johnnie Raw, with no more mother-wit or courage than a
porridge-stick. I took you for a good man, or no worse than others at
the least. It seems we were both wrong. What cause you have to fear me,
to cheat me, and to attempt my life--"

He murmured something about a jest, and that he liked a bit of fun; and
then, seeing me smile, changed his tone, and assured me he would make
all clear as soon as we had breakfasted. I saw by his face that he had
no lie ready for me, though he was hard at work preparing one; and I
think I was about to tell him so, when we were interrupted by a knocking
at the door.

Bidding my uncle sit where he was, I went to open it, and found on the
doorstep a half-grown boy in sea-clothes. He had no sooner seen me than
he began to dance some steps of the sea-hornpipe (which I had never
before heard of far less seen), snapping his fingers in the air and
footing it right cleverly. For all that, he was blue with the cold; and
there was something in his face, a look between tears and laughter, that
was highly pathetic and consisted ill with this gaiety of manner.

"What cheer, mate?" says he, with a cracked voice.

I asked him soberly to name his pleasure.

"O, pleasure!" says he; and then began to sing:

     "For it's my delight, of a shiny night,
     In the season of the year."

"Well," said I, "if you have no business at all, I will even be so
unmannerly as to shut you out."

"Stay, brother!" he cried. "Have you no fun about you? or do you want
to get me thrashed? I've brought a letter from old Heasyoasy to Mr.
Belflower." He showed me a letter as he spoke. "And I say, mate," he
added, "I'm mortal hungry."

"Well," said I, "come into the house, and you shall have a bite if I go
empty for it."

With that I brought him in and set him down to my own place, where he
fell-to greedily on the remains of breakfast, winking to me between
whiles, and making many faces, which I think the poor soul considered
manly. Meanwhile, my uncle had read the letter and sat thinking; then,
suddenly, he got to his feet with a great air of liveliness, and pulled
me apart into the farthest corner of the room.

"Read that," said he, and put the letter in my hand.

Here it is, lying before me as I write:

"The Hawes Inn, at the Queen's Ferry.

"Sir,--I lie here with my hawser up and down, and send my cabin-boy to
informe. If you have any further commands for over-seas, to-day will be
the last occasion, as the wind will serve us well out of the firth.
I will not seek to deny that I have had crosses with your doer,* Mr.
Rankeillor; of which, if not speedily redd up, you may looke to see some
losses follow. I have drawn a bill upon you, as per margin, and am, sir,
     your most obedt., humble servant, "ELIAS HOSEASON."* Agent.

"You see, Davie," resumed my uncle, as soon as he saw that I had done,
"I have a venture with this man Hoseason, the captain of a trading brig,
the Covenant, of Dysart. Now, if you and me was to walk over with
yon lad, I could see the captain at the Hawes, or maybe on board the
Covenant if there was papers to be signed; and so far from a loss of
time, we can jog on to the lawyer, Mr. Rankeillor's. After a' that's
come and gone, ye would be swier* to believe me upon my naked word; but
ye'll believe Rankeillor. He's factor to half the gentry in these parts;
an auld man, forby: highly respeckit, and he kenned your father."

     * Unwilling.

I stood awhile and thought. I was going to some place of shipping, which
was doubtless populous, and where my uncle durst attempt no violence,
and, indeed, even the society of the cabin-boy so far protected me. Once
there, I believed I could force on the visit to the lawyer, even if my
uncle were now insincere in proposing it; and, perhaps, in the bottom
of my heart, I wished a nearer view of the sea and ships. You are to
remember I had lived all my life in the inland hills, and just two days
before had my first sight of the firth lying like a blue floor, and the
sailed ships moving on the face of it, no bigger than toys. One thing
with another, I made up my mind.

"Very well," says I, "let us go to the Ferry."

My uncle got into his hat and coat, and buckled an old rusty cutlass on;
and then we trod the fire out, locked the door, and set forth upon our
walk.

The wind, being in that cold quarter the north-west, blew nearly in our
faces as we went. It was the month of June; the grass was all white with
daisies, and the trees with blossom; but, to judge by our blue nails
and aching wrists, the time might have been winter and the whiteness a
December frost.

Uncle Ebenezer trudged in the ditch, jogging from side to side like an
old ploughman coming home from work. He never said a word the whole
way; and I was thrown for talk on the cabin-boy. He told me his name was
Ransome, and that he had followed the sea since he was nine, but could
not say how old he was, as he had lost his reckoning. He showed me
tattoo marks, baring his breast in the teeth of the wind and in spite
of my remonstrances, for I thought it was enough to kill him; he swore
horribly whenever he remembered, but more like a silly schoolboy than a
man; and boasted of many wild and bad things that he had done: stealthy
thefts, false accusations, ay, and even murder; but all with such a
dearth of likelihood in the details, and such a weak and crazy swagger
in the delivery, as disposed me rather to pity than to believe him.

I asked him of the brig (which he declared was the finest ship that
sailed) and of Captain Hoseason, in whose praises he was equally loud.
Heasyoasy (for so he still named the skipper) was a man, by his account,
that minded for nothing either in heaven or earth; one that, as people
said, would "crack on all sail into the day of judgment;" rough, fierce,
unscrupulous, and brutal; and all this my poor cabin-boy had taught
himself to admire as something seamanlike and manly. He would only admit
one flaw in his idol. "He ain't no seaman," he admitted. "That's Mr.
Shuan that navigates the brig; he's the finest seaman in the trade, only
for drink; and I tell you I believe it! Why, look'ere;" and turning down
his stocking he showed me a great, raw, red wound that made my blood run
cold. "He done that--Mr. Shuan done it," he said, with an air of pride.

"What!" I cried, "do you take such savage usage at his hands? Why, you
are no slave, to be so handled!"

"No," said the poor moon-calf, changing his tune at once, "and so he'll
find. See'ere;" and he showed me a great case-knife, which he told me
was stolen. "O," says he, "let me see him try; I dare him to; I'll do
for him! O, he ain't the first!" And he confirmed it with a poor, silly,
ugly oath.

I have never felt such pity for any one in this wide world as I felt for
that half-witted creature, and it began to come over me that the brig
Covenant (for all her pious name) was little better than a hell upon the
seas.

"Have you no friends?" said I.

He said he had a father in some English seaport, I forget which.

"He was a fine man, too," he said, "but he's dead."

"In Heaven's name," cried I, "can you find no reputable life on shore?"

"O, no," says he, winking and looking very sly, "they would put me to a
trade. I know a trick worth two of that, I do!"

I asked him what trade could be so dreadful as the one he followed,
where he ran the continual peril of his life, not alone from wind and
sea, but by the horrid cruelty of those who were his masters. He said
it was very true; and then began to praise the life, and tell what a
pleasure it was to get on shore with money in his pocket, and spend it
like a man, and buy apples, and swagger, and surprise what he called
stick-in-the-mud boys. "And then it's not all as bad as that," says he;
"there's worse off than me: there's the twenty-pounders. O, laws!
you should see them taking on. Why, I've seen a man as old as you, I
dessay"--(to him I seemed old)--"ah, and he had a beard, too--well, and
as soon as we cleared out of the river, and he had the drug out of his
head--my! how he cried and carried on! I made a fine fool of him, I tell
you! And then there's little uns, too: oh, little by me! I tell you, I
keep them in order. When we carry little uns, I have a rope's end of
my own to wollop'em." And so he ran on, until it came in on me what
he meant by twenty-pounders were those unhappy criminals who were
sent over-seas to slavery in North America, or the still more unhappy
innocents who were kidnapped or trepanned (as the word went) for private
interest or vengeance.

Just then we came to the top of the hill, and looked down on the Ferry
and the Hope. The Firth of Forth (as is very well known) narrows at this
point to the width of a good-sized river, which makes a convenient ferry
going north, and turns the upper reach into a landlocked haven for all
manner of ships. Right in the midst of the narrows lies an islet with
some ruins; on the south shore they have built a pier for the service
of the Ferry; and at the end of the pier, on the other side of the road,
and backed against a pretty garden of holly-trees and hawthorns, I could
see the building which they called the Hawes Inn.

The town of Queensferry lies farther west, and the neighbourhood of the
inn looked pretty lonely at that time of day, for the boat had just gone
north with passengers. A skiff, however, lay beside the pier, with some
seamen sleeping on the thwarts; this, as Ransome told me, was the brig's
boat waiting for the captain; and about half a mile off, and all
alone in the anchorage, he showed me the Covenant herself. There was a
sea-going bustle on board; yards were swinging into place; and as the
wind blew from that quarter, I could hear the song of the sailors as
they pulled upon the ropes. After all I had listened to upon the way, I
looked at that ship with an extreme abhorrence; and from the bottom of
my heart I pitied all poor souls that were condemned to sail in her.

We had all three pulled up on the brow of the hill; and now I marched
across the road and addressed my uncle. "I think it right to tell
you, sir," says I, "there's nothing that will bring me on board that
Covenant."

He seemed to waken from a dream. "Eh?" he said. "What's that?"

I told him over again.

"Well, well," he said, "we'll have to please ye, I suppose. But what
are we standing here for? It's perishing cold; and if I'm no mistaken,
they're busking the Covenant for sea."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Davie now knows his uncle hates him. He starts imagining how he'll get the better of Ebenezer, and the thought really tickles his fancy. He's feeling pretty full of himself by now. Davie brings Ebenezer down to breakfast, then asks him point blank what is going on. Ebenezer says he'll tell Davie just after breakfast. Davie's sure he's going to be lied to again. Just when things are getting interesting, there's a knock at the door. Davie goes to answer. It's a kid, dressed like a sailor and blue from the cold. He starts doing a kind of sailor dance, sings a snatch of poetry, and then says he has a message from "old Heasyoasy" to "Mr. Belflower" - by which he means Balfour. The letter is from Elias Hoaseason, an agent who's in business with Ebenezer to back a merchant ship, the Covenant. Ebenezer suggests that Davie come with Ebenezer to the docks to talk to a nearby lawyer, Mr. Rankeillor. This Rankeillor can supposedly prove that Ebenezer's story is true. Davie decides the Ferry area will be crowded and his uncle won't have a chance to try anything funny. So they head out with the cabin boy. It turns out that the boy is named Ransome, and he's been at sea since he was nine. Ransome is not talking much sense: he shows Davie a terrible open wound inflicted on him by one of the officers of the Covenant, "Mr. Shuan," which he seems to think is a sign of what a great man Mr. Shuan is. Davie thinks all of Ransome's talk proves what an awful ship the Covenant must be, even though the name seems religious. At this point we need to give you a bit of historical background about the name of this ship. The Covenanters were a group of very political Presbyterian Christians who attempted to form a system of government around the Church of Scotland in the seventeenth century. This pitted the Covenanters against the Anglican church, which acknowledges the ruling king or queen of England as its leader. So at the same time that England is trying to take over Scotland, the English and the Scottish churches are getting involved in the brawl between the two countries. It all becomes pretty confusing, but the essential point is: the Covenanters are associated with Scottish patriotism, the Scottish Parliament, and a movement against the English kings . And we know that Stevenson is probably using "covenant" to remind his readers of this history because he refers to Patrick Walker, a Covenant pamphlet writer, elsewhere in the book . The boy, Ransome, continues, talking about the "twenty-pounders" , people who are kidnapped or sold into slavery and who are therefore even worse off than Ransome is. Another point of clarification here: Davie refers to people "trepanned for private interest or vengeance" . Trepanning is an old word that means kidnapping someone to make them work for you. He's definitely not talking about the crazy surgical procedure, also called trepanning, where you drill a hole into some poor guy's head to relieve pressure on the brain. Just FYI! From the top of a hill, Davie can finally see the river Forth emptying into the harbor, where a ferry is set up for upriver travel from the sea. Beyond the ferry, the Covenant is anchored. The three guys are heading for Hawes Inn, which is near the mouth of the Forth. in Scots, hence the name "the Firth of Forth.") Davie tells Ebenezer that there's no way he'll set foot onboard the Covenant. Ebenezer is like, whatever, it's cold and the Covenant is getting ready to leave, so let's hurry up.