King o' the Cannibal Islands," an' Sandy wirrin' like a perfeck terrier.
"That's some o' Robbie Boath's wark," he says in laich till himsel',
wi' an awfu' girn on his face. "He gae me that picture special, an
tell'd me the name o't, an' said to feenish wi't. But gin he disna get
a stane o' diseased pitatties frae me the morn that'll mak' him onweel
for a i'ortnicht, my name's no Si Bowden." Syne he added heich oot,
"Noo, loons and lassockies, that's a'. It's aboot time you was
toddlin' awa' hame noo; an' I howp you've a' enjoyed it."
Dauvid proposed a vote o' thanks to Sandy; an' you wudda thocht a' the
steam-engines atween this an' Glesca had gotten into oor washin'-hoose,
wi' their whistles on full-cock. The noise was something terriple. I
had to pet my fingers in my lugs, an' rin.
VIII.
SANDY AND THE RHUBARB TART.
Was ever a woman so provokit wi' a ramstam, dotrifeed gomeral o' a man?
Sandy Bowden 'ill hae me i' my grave yet afore my time, as share's I'm
a livin' woman. There's no' a closed e'e for me this nicht; an'
there's Sandy awa' till his bed wi' his airms rowed up in bits o' an
auld yellow-cotton apron o' Mistress Mikaver's mither's. Eh, sirce me;
an' me was so happy no' mony 'oors syne!
We gaed awa' to hae a cup o' tea wi' Mistress Mikaver--that's the
scone-baker's widow, ye ken. Her auldest laddie's been awa' oot amon'
the Reed Indians, or some o' thae ither lang-haired, naked fowk 'at
never wash themsel's; an' they say he's made a heap o' bawbees. He's a
snod bit stockie--a little beld, an' bowd-leggit, an' wants a thoom.
But, I'll swag, the young kimmers that were at the pairty didna see
muckle wrang wi' him. There was as keen competition for him amon' the
lassies as gin he'd been a gude-gaen public-hoose puttin' up for
unction.
Me an' Sandy landed amon' the first o' the fowk. A'thing was richt
snod, I assure ye. Mistress Mikaver had the stair noo whitened, an'
every stap was kaumed an' sandit, ye never saw the like. An' there she
was hersel' wi' her best black goon on, no' a smad to be seen on't, an'
her lace kep an' beady apron. She was a dandy, an' nae mistak'.
Afore Sandy got up the stair he manished to mairter the feck o' his
Sabbath claes wi' the whitenin'; an' I was akinda feard Mistress
Mikaver micht mistak' him for the scone-baker's ghost. But we got him
made gey snod, an' syne we gaed inby to the ben-hoose fireside, an' had
a crack wi' young Aleck. That's the son's name. Sandy an' him got
started aboot mustaings, an' Indeens, an' boomirangs, an' scoots an'
ither scoondrils, till I cudna be deaved ony langer wi' their forrin
blethers; so ben to but-the-hoose I gaed to hae a twa-handit crack wi'
Aleck's mither.
When I opened the door, here's as mony lassies as wudda startit a noo
mill. They'd been a' deckin' themsel's but-the-hoose afore they cam'
ben to see Aleck, d'ye see? He made himsel' rale frank, an' speer'd
for a' their mithers, an' a'thing; an' then we got roond the ben-hoose
table, an' had a fine game at the totum for cracknets.
Sandy juist got gey pranky, as uswal, afore he was lang startit. He's
aye the same when he gets amon' young lassies, the auld ass 'at he is.
"T tak's them a' but ane," he roared in the middle o' the game; an' he
grippit up a nivfu' o' the crack-nets, an' into his moo wi' them. His
een gaed up intil his heid, an' gin I hadna gien him a daud i' the
back, that garred the nets flee oot o' his moo a' ower tha table, he'd
been a chokit korp in a meenit or twa, juist as shure's the morn's
Setarday.
But little did I think what was afore's! Gin I'd kenned, I'd latten
him chok, the mairterin' footer 'at he is.
We a' gaed awa' doon the yaird aboot half-past seven, to see a noo
henhouse 'at Aleck had been tarrin' that efternune. He maun be a handy
earl, mind ye.
"Tak' care o' your frocks, for that tar's weet yet," says Aleck to the
lassies.
"Ay, man, so it is," says Sandy, takin' a slaik o't aff wi' his
fingers, an' syne dichtin't on the tail o' his sirtoo, the nesty
character, 'at I shud say sic a wird!
"Man, Aleck," says Sandy, when we were a' on the green juist takin' a
look roond aboot's, "it looks juist like the streen that you sat up 'on
that very tree there, an' pappit Gairner Winton wi' oslins that you'd
stealt ooten his ain gairden. I mind I was here when he cam' doon to
tell your father aboot your ongaens. You was a wild tyke o' a laddie,
I can tell ye. Your father gae you an awfu' paikin'; but fient a hair
did you care. He wasna weel dune tannin' you when you was roarin'
'Hairy Grozers'--that was a by-name o' the Gairner's--in at Winton's
shop door. You was a roid loon."
Aleck took a richt herty lauch at Sandy's blethers, an' the twa o' them
were juist thick an' three-faud afore they were half-an-'oor thegither.
Yet wudda thocht they'd kent ane anither sin' ever they were doakit.
Gin we cam' back, Aleck's mither had a fine supper a' ready on the
table. She had a can'le here an' there, an' pucklies o' chuckinwirth
an' persly scattered roond the rob-roys. It was awfu' nice. It would
raley garred ye think ye was amon' braw fowk. I was juist sittin'
admirin't when Aleck says, "Ay, then, are ye a' ready?"
We had to hover a blink till Mistress Mikaver ran ben the hoose for a
knife to Mey Mershell.
"Mester Bowden 'ill say the grace noo," says Aleck; an' Sandy was on
his feet like the shot o' a gun, hostin' to clear his throat. I
dreedit he wud mak' a gutter o't somewey or ither, an' so I keepit my
een open. Sandy shut his, an' so did a' the rest. He leaned forrit
an' spread oot the muckle clunkers o' hands o' him on the tap o' the
peat o' a big roobarb tert. "O Lord," was a' the len'th he'd gotten,
when in he gaed, up near to the elbas amon' the het roobarb; an' by a'
the skoilin' an' roarin' ever I heard, there never was the like! A gey
grace it was, I can tell ye! It'll no' be the morn nor next day 'at
I'll forget it. He roared an' yowled like I kenna what, an'
black-gairded reed-het roobarb terts, till I thocht he wudda opened the
very earth.
"O, haud your tongue, Sandy Bowden!" I cried, my very heid like to rive
wi' his yalpin'.
"Haud my tongue?" says he. "Hoo can I haud my tongue, an' my airms
stewin' amon' boilin' jeelie?"
Juist at this meenit Aleck aff wi' Sandy's coat syne he but the hoose
wi' him an' garred him shove his airms ower the heid in his mither's
floor pock. It deidened the pain in a wink, an' efter a whilie we got
the airms rowed up. I cudna gae ben to bid the ither fowk guid-nicht,
my hert was that sair; an' Sandy was hingin' his heid like a sick dog.
Puir man, he has mibby mair than me to thole; but I wudda gien a
five-pound note 'at I hadna left my ain hoose this nicht. I'll awa' to
my bed, for my hert's perfeckly i' my moo.
IX.
THE GREAT STORM OF NOVEMBER, 1893.
Eh, sirce me, what a nicht we had on Setarday mornin'! O, haud your
tongue! Though I should live lang eneuch to bury Sandy Bowden, an' hae
a golden weddin' wi' my second man, I'll never forget it. It mak's me
shaky-trimilly yet to think aboot it. Sandy's gaen aboot wi' a' the
hair cut aff the back o' his heid, an' fower or five strips o' stickin'
plester battered across his scawp. He got an awfu' mishap, puir man.
I thocht his heid was a' to smash, but, fortunately, it turned oot
fully harder than the biscuit tin it cam' into contact wi'.
It would be aboot ane o'clock or thereaboot when Sandy gae me a daud
wi' his elba that garred me a' jump. I had an awfu' busy day on
Friday; an' I was sleepin' as soond's a tap.
"'Oman," says he, "there's something fearfu' gaen on doon the yaird
somewey. Wud that be the Dyed Wallop an' her man fechtin', or what i'
the world's earth can it be? Harken, Bawbie! Did you ever hear sic
yawlin'?"
"Bliss me, Sandy man," says I, "that's the wind soochin' throo the
trees in the banker's gairden, an' fizzin' in amon' the pipes o' the
water barrels. It's shurely an awfu' nicht o' wind."
Juist at this meenit you wudda thocht the very deevil himsel' had
gotten grips o' the frame o' oor winda. He garred it rattle like the
thunder at Hewy White's theatre; then he yawled, an' hooed, an' growled
like five hunder cats an' as mony dogs wirryin' them, an' a' the fowk
'at echt them fechtin' at the same time. This feenisht up wi' a
terrific yawl; an' Sandy dived doon in ablo the claes.
"Ye fear'd nowt," says I, "what are ye fleein' awa' doon there for?
Ye'll hae my feet sterved to death wi' cauld. Lie up on your pillow
an' lat the claes doon to the fit o' the bed."
For a hale strucken 'oor this gaed on, an' sometimes I akwilly thocht I
fand the bed shakin'. Oor birdie (he hings at the winda) began to
wheek-wheek wi' fear, an I wanted Sandy to rise an' tak' the puir
cratur doon.
"The feint a-fear o' me," says he, the hertless skemp 'at he is. "If
you want the canary i' the bed aside you, you can rise an' tak' him
doon yersel'."
I raise an' took the puir craturie doon, an' hang him up on the ither
side o' the room; an,' mind ye, ye wud raley thocht the bit beastie
kent, for it gae a coodie bit cheep or twa, an juist cooered doon to
sleep again. Juist as I was gaen awa' to screw doon the gas, it gae
twa or three lowps, an' oot it gaed; an' afore I kent whaur I was,
there was a reeshilin' an' rummelin' on the ruif that wudda nearhand
fleggit the very fowk i' the kirkyaird. I floo to my bed, an' in aneth
the claes, an' lay for a meenit or so expectin' the cuples wud be doon
on the tap o's, an' bruze baith o's to pooder. Efter the rummelin'
haltit, I fand aboot wi' my fit for Sandy; but he wasna there.
"Preserve's a'," says I, heich oot, "whaur are ye, Sandy? Are ye
there? What's come ower ye? Are ye deid?"
"I'm here, Bawbie," says a shiverin' voice in aneth the bed. "I'm
here, Bawbie. Ye'll hear Gabriel's tuter juist i' the noo. O, Bawbie,
I've been a nesty footer o' a man, an' ill-gettit scoot a' my days. I
wiss I cud juist get hauds o' the Bible on the drawers-heid, Bawbie.
Did ye hear the mountins an' the rocks beginnin' to fa'?"
"Come awa' 'oot ablo there, Sandy," I says, says I, "an' no' get your
death o' cauld, an' be gaen aboot deavin fowk wi' you an' your reums.
The mountins an' rocks is the brick an' lum-cans aff Mistress
Mollison's hoose, I'm thinkin'." An' I cudna help addin'--"It's ower
late to be thinkin' aboot startin' to the Bible efter Gabriel's begun
to blaw his tuter, Sandy. Come awa' to your bed!"
Sandy got himsel' squeezed up atween the bed an' the wa'; an' at ilky
hooch an whirr 'at the wind gae he wheenged an' groaned like's he was
terriple ill wi' his inside; an' aye he was sayin', "I've been a lazy
gaen-aboot vegabon', an' ill-hertit vague. O dear, Bawbie, what'll we
do?"
I cam' to mysel' efter a whilie, an' raise an' tried the gas, an' it
lichtit a' richt. The wind was tearin' an' rivin' at the ruif at this
time something terriple. "We'll go doon the stair, Sandy," says I; an'
I made for the door.
"For ony sake, Bawbie," roared Sandy oot o' the bed, "wait till I get
on my breeks. If ye lave me, I'll g'wa' in a fit--as shore's ocht."
We got doon the stair an' I lichtit the fire an' got the kettle to the
boil, an' we sat an' harkined to the wind skreechin' doon the lum, an'
groanin' an' wailin' amon' the trees ower the road, an' soochin' roond
aboot the washin'-hoose. I raley never heard the marrow o't. The
nicht o' the fa'a'in' o' the Tay Brig was but the blawin' oot o' a
can'le aside it. I' the middle o' an awfu' sooch there was a fearfu'
reeshil at oor door, an' Sandy fair jamp aff his chair wi' the start.
"A'ye in, Sandy?" cried Dauvid Kenawee, in a nervish kind o' a voice.
I awa' an' opened the door, an' here was Dauvid an' Mistress
Kenawee--Dauvid wi' his pints wallopin' amon' his feet, an' his weyscot
lowse, an' Mistress Kenawee juist wi' her short-goon an' a shallie on.
"This is shurely the end o' the world comin'," said Mistress Kenawee,
near greetin'. "O dear me, I think something's genna come ower me."
"Tuts 'oman, sit doon," says Dauvid, altho' he was in a fell state
aboot her. I cud see that brawly.
The sicht o' the puir wafilly budy akinda drave the fear awa frae me;
an' I maskit a cup o' tea, an' crackit awa till her till we got her
cowshined doon. Their back winda had been blawn in, and Dauvid had
tried to keep oot the wind wi' a mattress; but the wind had tummeled
baith Dauvid an' the mattress heels ower gowrie, an' the wife got intil
a terriple state. They cudna bide i' the hoose ony langer, an' i' the
warst o't a', they cam' awa through a shoer o' sklates, an' bricks, an'
lum-cans, an' gless, to see if we wud lat them in.
I garred Sandy pet on a bit ham, and drew anower the table, and tried
to keep them frae thinkin' aboot it; but at ilka whizz an' growl the
wind gae, baith Sandy an' Mistress Kenawee startit an' took a lang
breath.
I'm shure we hadna abune a moofu' o' tea drucken, an' Sandy was juist
awa' to tak' aff' the ham, when the fryin' pan was knockit ooten his
hand, an' doon the lum cam' a pozel o' bricks an' shute that wudda
filled a cairt. Sandy fell back ower an' knockit Mistress Kenawee
richt i' the flure. The ham dip gaed up the lum in a gloze, an' here
was Sandy an' Dauvid's wife lyin' i' the middle o' a' the mairter o'
rubbitch. Mistress Kenawee's face, puir thing, was as white as a
cloot; but Sandy's was as black as the man More o' Vennis, the bleckie
that smored his wife i' the theatre for carryin' on wi' a sodger.
What a job Dauvid an' me had gettin' them roond. We poored a drappie
brandie doon baith their throats; an' Sandy opened his een an' says,
"Ay; I've been an awfu' blackgaird; I have that!" He had come doon wi'
the back o' his heid on a biscuit tin fu' o' peyse meal, an' had
smashed the tin an' sent the meal fleein' a' ower the hoose. But the
cratur had gotten an awfu' tnap on the back o' the heid, an' he was
bluidin' gey sair. Gin daylicht brook, Dauvid an' me had gotten the
twa o' them akinda into order, and Sandy was able to open the shop. He
had an awfu' ruggin' an' tuggin' afore he cud get the door to open; an'
he cam' into me an' says, "Dod, Bawbie, I think the hoose has gotten a
terriple thraw. The shop door 'ill nether go back nor forrit!"
I gaed oot to see what was ado. Eh, sirce, if you had only seen oor
street! The beach ootby at the Saut Pan, whaur there's a free coup for
rubbitch, was naething till't! It juist mindit me o' the picture, in
oor big Bible, o' Jerusalem when the fowk cam' back frae Babylon
till't--it was juist a' lyin' a cairn o' lowse steens an' half bricks.
There's neen o's 'ill forget Friday nicht in a hurry, or I'm muckle
misteen.
X.
SANDY AND HIS FAIRNTICKLES.
There's twa things Sandy Bowden's haen sin' ever I got acquant wi'
him--an' that's no' the day nor yesterday--that's fairntickles an'
cheepin' buits. I never kent Sandy bein' withoot a pair o'
'lastic-sided buits that gaed squakin' to the kirk like twa croakin'
hens. I've seen the fowk sometimes turn roond-aboot in their seats,
when Sandy cam' creakin' up the passage, as gin they thocht it was a
brass-band comin' in. But Sandy appears to think there's something
reverint an' Sabbath-like in cheepin' buits, an' he sticks to them,
rissen be't or neen. I can tell ye, it's a blissin' there's no' mony
mair like him, or we'd hae gey streets on Sabbath. The noise the
maitter o' twenty chields like Sandy cud mak' wi' their buit soles wud
fair deave a hale neeperhude.
Hooever, it wasna Sandy's buits I was to tell you aboot; it was my
nain. But afore I say onything aboot them, I maun tell you aboot the
fairntickles. As I was sayin', Sandy's terriple fairntickled aboot the
neck an' the sides o' the nose, an' oor lest holiday made him a hankie
waur than uswal. He's a gey prood mannie too, mind ye, although he
winna haud wi't. But I can tell you it's no a bawbee-wirth o' hair oil
that sairs Sandy i' the week. But that's nether here nor there.
Weel, Sandy had been speakin' aboot his fairntickles to Saunders Robb.
Saunders, in my opinion, is juist a haiverin' auld ass. He's a
hoddel-dochlin', hungert-lookin' wisgan o' a cratur; an', I'm shure, he
has a mind to match his body. There's naethin' he disna ken
aboot--an', the fac' is, he kens naething. He's aye i' the wey o'
improvin' ither fowk's wark. There's naethin' Saunders disna think he
could improve, excep' himsel' mibby. I canna be bathered wi' the
chatterin', fykie, kyowowin' little wratch. He's aye throwin' oot
suggestions an' hints aboot this and that. He's naething but a
suggestion himsel', an' I'm shure I cud of'en throw him oot, wi' richt
gude will.
Weel, he'd gien Sandy some cure for his fairntickles, an' Sandy,
unbekent to me, had gotten something frae the druggie an' mixed it up
wi' a guid three-bawbee's-wirth o' cream that I had in the upstairs
press. He had rubbit it on his face an' neck afore he gaed till his
bed; but he wasna an 'oor beddit when he had to rise. An' sik a sicht
as he was! His face an' neck were as yellow's mairyguilds, an'
yallower; an' though I've taen washin' soda, an' pooder, an' the very
scrubbin' brush till't, Sandy's gaen aboot yet juist like's he was noo
oot o' the yallow fivver an' the jaundice thegither.
"Ye'll better speer at Saunders what'll tak' it aff," says I till him
the ither mornin'.
"If I had a grip o' Saunders, I'll tak' mair than the fairntickles aff
him," says he; an' faigs, mind you, there's nae sayin' but he may do't;
he's a spunky carlie Sandy, when he's raised.
But, as far as that's concerned, I'm no' sorry at it, for it'll keep
the cratur awa' frae the place. Sin' Sandy put that sofa into the
washin'-hoose, him an' twa-three mair's never lain oot o't. Lyin'
smokin' an' spittin' an' crackin' aboot life bein' a trauchle, an' so
on! I tell you, if it had lested muckle langer, I'd gien them a bucket
o' water sweesh aboot their lugs some day; that's juist as fac's ocht.
But I maun tell you aboot my mischanter wi' my noo buits. I'm sure it
has fair delighted Sandy. He thinks he's gotten a hair i' my neck noo
that'll haud him gaen a while. He was needin't, I can tell you. If
ilky mairter he's made had been a hair in his neck, I'll swag, there
wudna been room for mony fairntickles.
Weel, I gaed awa' to the kirk lest Sabbath--Sandy, of coorse, cudna get
oot wi' his yallow face an' neck. He had a bran poultice on't to see
if it wud do ony guid. I canna do wi' noo buits ava, till I've worn
them a while. I pet them on mibby to rin an errand or twa, till they
get the set o' my fit, an' syne I can manish them to the kirk. But I
canna sit wi' noo buits; they're that uneasy. I got a noo pair lest
Fursday, an' tried them on on Sabbath mornin'. But na, na! Altho' my
auld anes were gey binkit, an' worn doon at the heels, I juist put them
on gey hurried, an' aff I set to the kirk, leavin' Sandy to look efter
the denner.
I was feelin' akinda queerish when I startit; but I thocht it was juist
the hurry, an' that a breath o' the caller air wud mak' me a' richt.
But faigs, mind ye, instead o' better I grew waur. My legs were like
to double up aneth me, an' my knees knokit up acrain' ane anither
like's they'd haen a pley aboot something. I fand a sweit brakin' oot
a' ower me, an' I had to stop on the brae an' grip the railin's, or,
it's juist as fac's ocht, I wudda been doon i' the road on the braid o'
my back. I thocht I was in for a roraborialis, or some o' thae
terriple diseases. Eh, I was feard I wud dee on the open street; I was
that! Mysie Meldrum noticed me, an' she cam' rinnin' to speer what was
ado.
"I've taen an awfu' dwam, Mysie," says I. "I think I'm genna dee. Ye
micht juist sit doon on the railin's aside's till the fowk be by."
"I think we're aboot the henmost, Bawbie," says she. "We're gey late;
but I'll bide aside you, lassie."
We sat for the maitter o' ten meenits, an' I got akinda roond, an'
thocht I wud try an' get hame. Mistress Kenawee had putten on her
tatties an' come oot for a dander a bittie, an' noticed the twa o's; so
she cam' up, an' I got her airm an' Mysie's, an', though it was a gey
job, we manished to get hame. An' gled I was when I saw Sandy's yallow
nose again, I can tell ye, for I was shure syne I wud dee at hame amon'
my nain bed-claes.
"The Lord preserve's a'!" says Mysie when she saw Sandy. "What i' the
name o' peace has come ower you? I'll need to go! I've Leeb's bairns
at hame, you see, an' this is the collery or the renderpest or
something come ower you twa, an' I'm feard o' smittin' the bairns, or I
wudda bidden. As shure's I live, I'll need to go!" an' she vanisht oot
at the door wi' a face as white's kauk.
"I think I'll rin for the doctor, Bawbie," said Mistress Konawee. She
kent aboot Sandy's fairntickles afore, of coorse, an' Sandy's yallow
fizog didna pet her aboot.
"Juist hover a blink," says I, "till I see if I come to mysel'."
I sat doon in the easy-chair, an' Sandy was in a terriple wey aboot me.
He cudna speak a wird, but juist keepit sayin', "O dinna dee, Bawbie,
dinna dee; your denner's ready!" He lookit me up an' doon, an' then
booin' doon till he was for a' the world juist like a half-steekit
knife he roars oot, "What's ado wi' your feet, Bawbie? Look at them!
Your taes are turned oot juist like the hands o' the tnock, at twenty
meenits past echt. You're shurely no genna tak' a parrylattick stroke."
I lookit doon, an' shure eneuch my taes were turned oot an' curled
roond like's they were gaen awa' back ahent my heels. Mistress Kenawee
got doon on her knees aside me.
"Preserve's a', Bawbie," says she; "you have your buits on the wrang
feet! Nae winder than your knees were knokin' thegither wi' thae auld
worn-doon heels turned inside, an' your taes turned oot."
But I'll better no' say nae mair aboot it. I was that angry; and
Mistress Kenawee, the bissam, was like to tnet hersel' lauchin'; but; I
ashure ye, I never got sik a fleg in my life--an' sik simple dune too,
mind ye.
XI.
SANDY STANDS "EMPIRE" AT A CRICKET MATCH.
I was sittin' on Friday nicht, readin' awa' at some bits o' the
_Herald_ I didna get at on Fursday, when the shop door gaed clash back
to the wa', an' in hammered fower or five bits o' loons a' at the heels
o' ane anither. When they saw me, they stood stock still, dichtin'
their noses wi' their jeckit sleeves, an' glowerin' like as mony
fleggit sheep.
"Go on, Jock," says ane o' them, gien anither ane a shuve forrit.
"You're the captain; speak you."
Jock gae a host, an' syne layin' his hand--a gey clorty ane it was--on
the coonter, an' stanin' on ae fit, he says--"Isyin?"
"Wha micht he be?" says I.
"Sandy," said the captain.
"What Sandy?" says I.
"No," said ane o' the birkies ahent; "your Sandy--Sandy Bowden."
"Ay, he's in," says I; "but you shud mind an' gie fowk their richt
names when ye're seeking them. Ye micht hae smeddum enough to say
Mester Bowden, or Alexander Bowden. Your teacher michta tell't ye
that."
I gaed awa' doon the yaird to get Sandy, an' juist as I was gaen oot at
the back door I heard ane o' the sackets sayin', "What's she chatterin'
aboot? She ca's him Sandy hersel'; I've heard her of'en." Did ever ye
hear what impident young fowk's gettin' noo-a-days? It's raley
terriple. When I was young, if I'd sen the like o' that, I'd gotten a
smack i' the side o' the heid that wudda garred the wa' tak's anither.
"Oo, ay," says Sandy, when I tell't him. "That'll be the lads frae the
Callyfloor C.C. They said they were mibby genna look yont the nicht."
He cam' up an' took the loons to the back shop, an' I heard them sayin'
they wantit him to be empire at their match wi' the second eleven o'
the Collie Park. There was a fell kurn fowk cam' into the shop, an' I
didna hear nae mair; but efter a whilie Sandy cam' to the door wi' the
laddies, an', gien his hand a wave, he says to them, as they were gaen
awa, "A' richt than; three sharp; I'll do my best."
"What's this noo?" says I. "Nae mair o' yer fitba' pliskies, I howp."
"Oh no," says Sandy. "That's a deputation frae the Callyfloor C.C. I
gae them a tume orange box a week or twa syne to haud their bats an'
wickets, an' they made me their pattern."
"A gey queer pattern," says I, wi' a lauch. "Faigs, Sandy, if they
shape themselves efter your pattern, their mithers an' wives--if ever
they get that len'th--'ill lose a hankie o' sleep wi' them, I'm
thinkin'."
"Auch, Bawbie, ye're juist haverin' like some auld aipplewife," says
Sandy. "That's no' the kind o' pattern I mean;" an' awa' he gaed for
the _Herald_ an' turned up a bit noos I never noticed, sayin' that
"Alexander Bowden, Esq., had been elected patron of the Cauliflower
C.C., and had contributed handsomely to the funds of the club."
"Oo ay! I see," says I. "An' what did you handsomely gie to the funds
o' the club?"