pettin't. I believe in the bawbees afore the tatties leave the back
door o' the cairt. Short accounts mak' lang freends."
"Do you do onything wi' the Continent ava?" said Meg's man.
"I travel a' ower the toon," said Sandy, "frae Tootles Nook to
Culloden, an' frae the Skemels to Cairnie Toll. It disna maitter a
doakan to me wha I sell till. Seven pund to the half-steen, an' cash
doon--thae's my principles; the same price, and the game turn o' the
bawk, to gentle and simple. When the champions are gude I can manish
twa load i' the day fine, an' if the disease keeps oot amon' them, they
pey no that ill."
Meg's man gey a kind o' a whistle in laich, an' I saw fine syne whaur
he had tint himsel'. Meg had tell'd him Sandy was a tattie merchant,
an' he'd been thinkin' Sandy had a big wey o' doin', an' sell'd tatties
in shiploads an' so on. I saw the whole thing in a blink, but never
lut wink, an' Sandy was fient a hair the better or the waur o' Meg's
man's mistak'.
We got a grand denner--something specific. "This is a kind o' a haiver
o' buff, Mistress Blair," said Sandy, when we got set doon; but I gae
him a kick throo ablo the table that garred him tak' his tongue atween
his teeth.
I needna tell you aboot a' we got to eat; Sandy ate that hearty that he
gaed oot to the simmer-seat efter, an' cud hardly steer oot o' the bit
for half an 'oor. Really ilky thing was better than anither, an' we
feenished up wi' ice-cream. Sandy took a gullar o't afore he kent, an'
I think he thocht he was brunt, for he nippit up the water bottle, an'
took a sweech o' cauld watter, an' then gae a pech like's he'd come
ooten a fit. He was a' richt efter a whilie, but the cratur had
over-eaten himsel', an' he was gey uneasy a' efternune.
Efter we got oor tea, Meg got the bairns a' beddit, an' then her an'
her man, an' me an' Sandy set aff for the theater. It was a terriple
grand theater, wi' as muckle gold hingin' roond aboot as wud mak' a'
the puir fowk in Arbroath millionaires. We got a grand seat, an'
a'thing gaed richt till near the feenish.
Mester Blair had what they ca' an opera gless wi' him, an' he handed it
to me to look throo. Sandy in wi' his hand intil his greatcoat pooch,
an' oot wi' his spygless, a great lang thing' like a barber's pole,
that he wan at a raffle at the Whin Inn. There was a chappie deein' on
the stage. He'd stuck himsel' wi' his soord, because a lassie wudna
mairry him, an' he was juist lyin' tellin' a' the fowk aboot crooil
weemin, an' peace in the grave, an' a'thing, when Sandy cockit up his
spygless to hae a glower at him afore he gae his henmist gasp.
I saw the chappie gien a kind o' a fear'd-like start, syne he sprang
till his feet an' roared, "Pileece, pileece! there's an anarkist an' a
feenyin's bom in the theater," an' took till his heels aff the stage.
You never saw sic a wey o' doin'. You speak aboot peace in the grave.
There wasna muckle peace in the theater. We was a' winderin' what was
ado, an' Sandy was busy peekin' roond wi' his spygless, when twa
bobbies cam' fleein' anower an' grippit him an' roared till him to
sirrender. I can tell you, he nearhand sirrendered ane o' the bobbies
wi' the spygless. If it hadna been for Mester Blair gettin' a haud o'
the wechty end o't, there wudda been a noo helmet, an' mibby a new
bobby needed in Edinboro.
The row was a' ower in five meenits, when Mester Blair explen'd things;
but if he hadna been wi's, I'm dootin' it wudda been a job. There was
ane o' the great muckle dosent nowts o' bobbies cam' an' gowpit in my
face, an' says, "D'ye think this ane's a woman?" I fand in ahent's for
my umberell; but my chappie gaed his wa's gey quick, or I'd gien him
the wecht o't across his nose. It was a gey-like wey o' doin' aboot
naething; but efter we got hame an' had oor supper we forgot a' aboot
it, an' spent a very happy 'oor or twa afore we gaed to oor beds.
XIV.
LOVE AND WAR.
Wudna you winder hoo some fowk grow aye the aulder the waur? You see
Toon Cooncillors, for instance, gettin' less use the langer they keep
their job; an' ministers--haud your tongue! If they're no' guid, they
get mair an' mair driech the langer they preach; even their auld
sermons, when they turn the barrel an' start at the boddom o' her,
appear to get driecher than ever. It's juist the same wi' Sandy--the
aulder he grows he gets the waur, till I raley winder what'll happen
till him. He's richt sensible an' eident whiles; but when the fey
blude gets intil his heid, an' he gets into the middle o' ony rig, he's
juist as daft as the rochest haflin that ever fee'd.
When I heard the band on Setarday efternune, I threw the key i' the
shop door, an' ran doon to the fit o' the street to see the sojers
passin'. Wha presents himsel', merchin' in the front o' the band, but
my billie, Sandy. There he was wi' a hunder laddies roond him, smokin'
his pipe like's he was gettin' his denner ooten't, ane o' his airms up
to the elba in his breeks' pooch, stappin' oot to the musik like a
fechtin' cock, an' his ither airm sweengin' back an' forrit like the
pendilum o' the toon's clock. To look at him you wudda thocht he was
trailin' the band an' a' the sojers ahent him, he lookit that hard
wrocht. He never saw me--not him! His e'en were starin' fair afore
him; he wudna kent his ain tattie cairt, I believe, he was that muckle
taen up wi' his merchin'.
He landit hame till his tea atween sax an' seven o'clock, stervin' o'
cauld, but as happy's a cricket. "Man, Bawbie," he says, as I laid a
reed herrin' on the brander for him, "there's naething affeks me like
sojers merchin' to musik. It juist garrs my backbeen dirl, an' I canna
sit still. When they were doin' the merch-past this efternune, I had
to up an' rin, or I wudda thrappilt some lad sittin' aside's. That's
the wey it affeks me. I wudda gien a pound note juist to gotten a
richt straucht-forrit fecht amon' them for half an 'oor."
"You're juist like a muckle bubbly laddie, Sandy," says I. "It's a
winder you wasna awa' up the toon wi' them to see if ony o' the sojers
wud lat you cairry hame their gun. I raley winder to see an auld
tattie man like you goin' on like some roid loon."
"That's a' you ken, Bawbie," says he. "I ken mair aboot thae things
than you, fully; an', though I am a tattie man, look at Abraham Linkin;
he was waur than a tattie man to begin wi'; an' the Jook o'
Wellinton--michty, he was born in Ireland; an' look what he cam' till!
I tell you what it is, Bawbie, if they'd haen me at the battle o'
Waterloo, you wudda heard anither story o't. I feel'd within mysel',
that if I'd only haen the chance--see 'at that reed herrin's no'
burnin'--I michta been a dreel sergint or a general----"
"A general haiverin' ass," I strak in. "See; there's your herrin';
poor oot your tea noo, an' haud your lang tongue."
"Ow, weel-a-weel," says Sandy, gey dour-like--he's as bucksturdie as a
mule when he tak's't in's heid--"but we're no' deid yet, an' we'll
mibby manish to garr some fowk winder yet, when a's dune. What's been
dune afore can be dune again; the speerit o' Bannockburn's no' de'ed
oot a'thegither."
But I left the cratur chatterin' awa' till himsel', an' ran but to sair
some fowk i' the shop. Did you ever hear o' sic a man? Dauvid Kenawee
says Sandy's a kind o' a sinnyquanon; an' it's my opeenyin he's no'
very far wrang, whatever that may mean.
As I was sayin', there's nae fules like auld fules. I put oot
twa-three bits o' things on the green on Setarday forenune, an' I
forgot a' aboot them till efter the shop was shut. It wud be nearhand
twal o'clock when I ran doon for them. It was a fine nicht, but
dreidfu' cauld. Juist as I was gaitherin' up the twa-three bit duds, I
heard voices ower the dyke, an' I cudna but harken to see wha wud be
oot at that time o' nicht. Fancy what I thocht when I heard Beek
Steein's voice, that bides in Mistress Mollison's garret, sayin', "Eh,
ay, Jeemie; it's an awfu' thing luve. I hinna steekit 'an e'e for twa
nichts thinkin' aboot ye."
Preserve's a', thinks I to mysel', this is Ribekka an' Jeems Ethart,
the engine-driver. Jeems is a weeda man, an' Ribekka's like me, she's
on the wrang side o' forty; but, faigs, on Setarday nicht you wudda
thocht they were baith aboot five-an'-twenty.
"My bonnie dooie," I heard Jeems say. A gey dooie, I says to mysel'.
There's twal steen o' her, if there's a pund. It wud tak' a gey pair
o' weengs to cairry Ribekka, I tell ye.
"A'ye genna gie's a kiss, Ribekka?" Jeems says after a whilie; an'
Ribekka gae a bit geegle, an' then whispers laich in, "Help yoursel',
Jeemie"--an' there they were at it like twa young anes.
I didna ken whuther to flee up the yaird, roar oot "feyre," or clim' up
on the dyke an' gie them a wallop roond the linders wi' my bits o'
cloots. So I stud still.
The fient a ane o' them ever thocht there was a livin' sowl within
fifty yairds o' them, an' they were crackin' an' kirrooin' awa' like a
pair o' doos.
"Isn't a peety they dinna ca' me Izik?" says Jeems.
"Hoo d'ye think that?" said Ribekka.
"Cause it wudda lookit so fine--Izik an' Ribekka, d'ye see?" an' they
nickered an' leuch like a' that.
"An' I wudda been Ribekka at the wall," said Beek.
"Exackly," said Jeems; "altho' this auld pump's hardly the kind o' wall
they had in thae days. I hope there's nae horn-gollochs aboot it."
"There's twal o'clock," said Ribekka; "we'll need to be goin'.
Gude-nicht, Jeems. See an' mind aboot me. Gude-nicht."
"Gude-nicht, my ain bonnie lassie," Jeems harken'd in till her. "Dinna
be feared o' me forgettin' ye. I never lift a shuffle o' coals but, I
think I see your face. Every puff o' the engine brings me in mind o'
ye, Ribekka; an' when I sit doon to tak' my denner, I lat fa' my flagon
whiles, I'm that taen up thinkin' aboot ye."
"Eh, Jeems, you're codin' me noo! But gude-night! Eh, mind ye, it's
Sabbath mornin'."
"Gude-nicht, my bonnie lassie. Oh, Ribekka, you're sweeter gin heather
honey. I wiss Sint Tammas Market was here, an' we'll be nae langer twa
but wan. My bonnie dooie! Gude-nicht, my ain scentit geranum," says
Jeems.
I began to be akinda waumish, d'ye ken. The haivers o' the two spooney
craturs juist garred me feel like's I'd taen a fizzy drink or
something. You ken what I mean--the kind o' a' ower kittlie feelin'
that's like to garr you screech, ye dinna ken hoo.
"Gude-nicht, Jeems," says Beek again. "I'll never luve onybody but
you."
"Are your shure?" began the auld ass again; an' me stanin' near frozen
to death wi' cauld, an' cudna get oot o' the bit.
"Never!" said Beek; "never!"
"Gude-nicht, than, dearie, an' see an' no' forget me. Will ye no'?"
"Ye needna be feared, Jeems. I luve you alone, an' nae ither body i'
the wide, wide world. Gude-nicht, my Jeemie."
"Gude-nicht, than, Ribekka, luvie. An' if you dinna forget----"
But this was ower muckle for me; so I juist roared oot, "Gude-nicht, ye
haiverin' eedeits," as heich as I cud yawl, an' up the yaird at what I
cud flee.
Sandy was beddit on the back o' ten o'clock, an' he was snorin' like a
dragoon when I gaed up the stair. But when I got anower he jamp up a'
o' a sudden, like's he'd gotten a fleg.
"Keep me, Bawbie, whaur i' the face o' the earth hae you been?" he
says, wi' his een stanin' in's heid, an' drawin' in his breath like's a
shooer o' cauld water had been skootit aboot him. "You've shurely been
awa' at the whalin'. Bless me, your feet's as cauld's an iceikle.
Keep them awa' frae me."
Isn't that juist like thae men? Weemin can beat them in mony weys, I
admit; but, for doonricht selfishness, come your wa's!
XV.
SANDY MAKES A SPEECH.
There's been great gaitherin's in oor washin'-hoose this while
back--"Nochties-an'-Broziana," Bandy Wobster ca'd the meetin's to
Sandy. The ither Wedensday i' the forenicht--the shop was shut i' the
efternune, of coorse; I'm a great believer i' the half-holiday, you
see. I think it's a capital idea. It gi'es a body a kind o' a breath
or twa i' the middle o' the week, an' it pits naebody aboot. The fowk
juist come for their things afore you shut. It disna mak' a hair o'
difference. If you didna open ava, they wud juist come the nicht afore.
Weel, but, as I was sayin', the ither Wedensday nicht I flang my
shallie ower my heid, an' took a stap oot at the back door i' the
gloamin'. It was a fine nicht, an' I sat doon on the simmer-seat at
the gavel o' the washin'-hoose, an' heard the argey-bargeyin' gaen on
inside. I stuid up an' lookit in at the bolie winda, juist abune whaur
the skeels sit, an' here was Sandy an' his cronies a' busy crackin' an'
smokin', an enjoyin' themselves i' the middle o' a great steer o' reek
an' noise.
Juist as I lookit in, Bandy Wobster said something to Dauvid Kenawee,
an' Dauvid raise, an' takin' his pipe oot o' his moo, says, "Order! I
pirpose Mester Wobster to the chair."
"Hear, hear," said a' the rest; an' wi' that Bandy got up on the
boiler-heid on his belly, an' turnin' roond, sat wi' the legs o' him
hingin' ower the front o' the boiler, juist like a laddie sittin' on
the dyke at the Common. Watty Finlay, the weaver, shuved anower a tume
butter kit for Bandy to set his feet on, an' then a'body sat quiet,
juist like's something was genna happen.
Bandy took a bit tarry string, or tabaka or something, ooten his breeks
pooch, an', nippin' aff a quarter o' a yaird o't, he into his moo wi't.
Syne he swallowed a spittal, an' said--"Freends an' fella ratepeyers."
Bandy never pey'd rates in's life. He bides in a twa-pound garret i'
the Wyndies, an' hardly ever peys rent, lat aleen rates. "Freends an'
fella ratepeyers," says he.
Bandy was stan'in' up on the boddom o' the butter kit gin this time,
an' a' the billies were harkenin' like onything.
"Freends an' fella ratepeyers," says Bandy again. "See gin that door's
on the sneck, Sandy, an' dinna lat the can'le blaw oot."
Sandy raise an' put to the door, an' set the can'le alang nearer Bandy
a bit, an' then sat doon i' the sofa again.
"I hinna muckle to say," says Bandy. Bandy was brocht up in Aiberdeen,
you ken, an' he has whiles a gey queer wey o' speakin'. "I hinna very
muckle to say, you ken," says he, "an' konsequently, I'll no' say very
muckle."
"Hear, hear," roared Watty Finlay.
"The Toon Cooncil elections is leemin' in the distance," continued
Bandy, "an', as ceetizens o' the Breetish Empyre, we maun look oot for
fit an' proper persons to reprisent the opinions o' the democracy in
the Hoose o'--in the Toon Hoose, an' on the Police Commission.
Gentlemen----"
This garred a' the billies sit back in their seats, an' dicht their
moos wi' their jeckit sleeves, an' host. Watty Finlay nearhand cowpit
ower the bucket he was sittin' on; but he got his balance again, an'
sayin', "Ay, man," heich oot, he got a' richt sattled doon again.
"Gentlemen," says Bandy, "the time for action draws at hand. Oor
watter is no fit for ki drinking; an' there's fient a thing but watter
in the weet dock. My heart bleeds when I go roond the shore an' see
all the ships sailin' oot o' the herbir, an' no' a livin' sowl comin'
in. Gentlemen, that herbir's growin' a gijantic white elephant."
"An' so's the Watter Toor, an' the Lifeboat too," roared Dauvid Kenawee.
"The toon's foo o' white elephants, a' colours," said Moses Certricht.
"The Toon Cooncil's made it juist like a wild beast show."
"Hear, hear," cried the whole lot; an' Stumpie Mertin, gettin' a little
excited, roared "Order," an' set them a' a-lauchin'.
"Gentlemen," said Bandy again, "it's as plen's a pikestaff that a' oor
municeepal affairs is clean gaen to the deevil a'thegither; an' I have
much pleasure----"
"Hear, hear," said Watty Finlay, "he's the very man." There was a bit
lauch at this, an' Watty added, "I mean Sandy, of coorse--no' the
deevil 'at Bandy was speakin' aboot."
"I was genna say," said Bandy, "when I was interrupit by the honourable
gentleman----"
"O, gie's a rest," said Watty; an' Bandy had to begin again.
"I was genna say," he said, "that we maun get a hand o' a puckle men o'
abeelity an' straucht-forritness, an' I have much pleasure in proposin'
a vote of thanks to oor worthy freend, Mester Bowden, for comin' forrit
to abolish the Toon Cooncil o' every rissim o' imposeeshin, till
taxation shall vanish into oblivion, an' be a thing o' the past.
Mester Bowden is a man----"
"Hear, hear," says Watty again.
"Mester Bowden is a man that will never do onything----"
"Hear, hear," Watty stricks in again. He juist yatter-yattered awa'
like a parrot a' the time.
"Onything below the belt," proceeded Bandy. "Give him your votes,
gentlemen. I can recommend him. Sandy--I mean Mester Bowden, will
stick to his post like Cassybeeanka, or whatever they ca'd the billie
that was brunt at the battle o' the Nile. He'll no' be like some o'
them that, like Ralph the Rover,
Sailed away,
An' scoored the sea for mony a day.
Gentlemen, let everywan here do his very best to get every elektor to
vote for Sandy, Mester Bowden, the pop'lar candidate. Up wi' him to
the tap o' the poll!"
Bandy cam' doon wi' his tackety buit on the boddom o' the butter kit,
an' in it gaed, an' him wi't, an' there he was, clappin' his hands, an'
stanin' juist like's he'd on a wid crinoline. You never heard sic a
roostin' an' roarin' an' hear-hearin' an' hurrain'! I had to shut my
een for fear o' bein' knokit deaf a'thegither. Stumpie Mertin jumpit
up as spruce as gin he had baith his legs, instead o' only ane, an'
forgettin' whaur he was, he glowered a' roond the wa' an' says,
"Whaur's the bell, lads?"
It was Sandy's turn noo; an' efter Dauvid Kenawee, auld Geordie Steel,
an' Moses Certricht had gotten the chairman pu'd oot o' the butter kit,
an' on to the boiler-heid again, Sandy raise ooten his seat wi' a look
on his face like a nicht watchman. They a' swang their airms roond
their heids, an' hurraed like onything, an' Sandy took lang breaths,
an' lookit roond him as gin he was feard some o' them wud tak' him a
peelik i' the lug.
When they quieted doon, Sandy gae a host, an' Watty Finlay said, "Hear,
hear."
"Fella elektors," said Sandy, "let me thank you for your cordial
reception."
Sandy had haen that ready aforehand, for he said her aff juist like
"Man's Chief End." Syne he lifted his fit an' put it on the edge o'
the sofa. He rested his elba on his knee, an' his chin on his hand,
an' lookit quite at hame, like's he'd been accustomed addressin'
meetin's a' his born days.
"I think oor worthy chairman spoke ower high aboot my abeelity," said
Sandy; "but as far as lies in my pooer, I will never budge from my
post, but stand firm." At this point, Sandy's fit slippit aff the edge
o' the sofa, an' he cam' stoit doon an' gae Moses Certricht a daud i'
the lug wi' the croon o' his heid, that sent Moses' heid rap up again'
Dauvid Kenawee's.
"What i' the world are ye heavin' aboot that heid o' yours like that
for?" said Dauvid, glowerin' like a wild cat at Moses: an' Bandy kickit
his heels on the front o' the boiler, an' roared, "Order, gentlemen.
Respeck the chair!"
I was juist away to cry--"Ye micht respeck my boiler, raither, an' no'
kick holes i' the plester wi' thae muckle clunkers o' heels o' yours";
but I keepit it in.
Sandy got himsel' steadied up again, an' pulled doon his weyscot, syne
gae his moo a dicht, an' buttoned his coat. I cud see fine that he was
tryin' to keep up the English; but it wasna good enough. "I am no' a
man o' learnin'," said Sandy. "I'm a wirkin' man, an' if I tak' up my
heid wi' publik affairs, it's 'cause I've naething else ado, and it'll
keep me oot o' langer. As oor respeckit chairman says, I'm no' like
Ralph the Rover, sailin' awa' an' scoorin' the sea for mony a day.
That looks like a pure weyst o' soap--juist like what goes on i' the
Toon Cooncil daily-day. You may lauch, freends, but it's ower true;
an' wha is't peys for't?"
"It's his! It's his, lads!" roared a' the billies i' the washin'-hoose.
"It is so," said Sandy. "Oor Toon Cooncil's juist like this Ralph the
Rover, gaen awa' scoorin' the sea for nae end--for the sea's no'
needin' scoorin'--when he michta been at hame helpin' his wife to ca'
the washin'-machine. It's usef'u' wark we want. Neen o' your Bailie
Thingymabob's capers, wi' his donkey engines, eksettera. Echt thoosand
pound for a noo kirkyaird! Did ye ever hear the like! What aboot the
grand view you get? A puckle o' thae Cooncillors crack as gin they
were genna pet bow-windas into a' the graves, to lat ye hae a grand
view efter you was buried. Blethers o' nonsense! That's juist what I
ca' scoorin' the sea like Ralph the Rover."
By faigs, lads, Sandy garred me winder gin this time. Ye never heard
hoo he laid it into them, steekin' his nivs an' layin' aboot him wi'
his airms.
"Echt thoosand pound!" he roars again. "That's seven shillin's the
heid--man, woman, and bairn i' the toon o' Arbroath. What d'ye think
o' that? But that's no' a'. There's the toon's midden, too; that's
needin' a look intil."
"Hear, hear," put in Watty as uswal; an' Bandy added, "It has muckle
need, as my nose can tell ye."
"What d'ye think o' a midden i' the very middle o' your toon?" Sandy
gaed on. "I paws for an answer," he said in a gravedigger's kind o' a
voice. He crossed his legs ower ane anither, an' put ane o' his hands
in ablo the tails o' his coat; an', gettin' akinda aff his balance, he
gaed spung up again' Bandy Wobster. There was a crunch an' a splash,
an' there was the chairman's bowd legs stickin' up oot o' the boiler,
an' his face lookin' throo atween his taes, wi' a pair o' een like a
wild cat. He was up to the neck amon' the claes I had steepin' for the
morn's washin'. The nesty footer that he was, I cudda dune I kenna
what till him.
"Ye great, big, clorty, tarry beast," I roared in at the winda; "come
oot amon' my claes this meenit, or I'll come in an' kin'le the fire,
an' boil ye." Sandy bloo oot the can'le; an' by a' the how-d'ye-does
ever was heard tell o', you niver heard the marrow o' yon. Stumpie
Mertin roared "Order! Feyre!" at the pitch o' his voice; an' the
chairman was yowlin', "For ony sake, gie's a grip o' some o' your hands
till I get oot o' this draw-wall, or I'm a deid man."
I think he had gotten haud o' a shelf abune his heid, an' giein'
himsel' a poo up; for there was a most terriple reeshel o' broken
bottles, an' beef tins, an' roarin' an' swearin', you never heard the
like.
"What i' the face o' the earth was ye doin' blawin' oot the can'le,
Sandy?" said Dauvid Kenawee. "Hold on a meenit till I strik' a spunk,
an' see wha's a' deid," he says; an' wi' that he strak' a match an'
lichtit the can'le. Bandy had gotten himsel' akinda warsled oot o' the
boiler, but Stumpie Mertin had tnakit his wid leg ower by the ankle,
an' there he was hawpin' aboot, gaen bobbin' up an' doon like a
rabbit's tail, roarin' "Murder!"
"I think we'll better lave ower the rest o' the meetin' till anither
nicht," said Moses Certricht, "an' we can look into the toon's midden
some ither time."
"Juist tak' a look roond aboot ye," says I, in at the winda, "an' ye'll
see midden eneuch. Wha's genna clean up that mairter? I paws for a
answer," says I, in a voice as like Sandy's bural-society wey o'
speakin' as I cud manish. "Speak aboot pettin' Sandy Bowden at the tap
o' the poll. He'll be mair use at the end o' the bissam shaft, I'm
thinkin'."
"C'wey, you lads," says Bandy. "I'm soakin' dreepin' throo an' throo,
an' it's time I was oot o' this."
"Hear, hear," says Watty again; an' oot the entry they a' merched
withoot a wird. If I'm no mista'en that'll be the end o' Sandy's Toon
Cooncillin'; an' time till't, I think. The man's no' wyse to think
aboot ony sic thing. Perfeckly ridic'lous!
Sandy an' me were oot the Sands enjoyin' a bit walk juist yesterday
efternune, an' we were dreedfu' quiet. There didna appear to be
onything to speak aboot ava. So I juist said in a kind o' jokey wey,
"Ay, Sandy, an' hae ye seen the Ward Committee yet, laddie, aboot that
Toon Cooncil bisness."
As shure's ocht, he grew reed i' the face; but he got richt efter a
whilie, an' he says, "We're genna be like the Skule Brod efter this,
Bawbie. We'll hae oor meetin's in private, an' juist lat you an' the
publik ken aboot bits o' things ya can mak' naething o'. D'ye see? If
ye pet your nose in aboot ony bolies harkenin', you'll mibby get the
wecht o' a bissam shaft on the end o't. That'll learn ye to slooch an'
harken to ither fowk's bisness."
"Keep me!" says I, I says. "Ye're terriple peppery the nicht, Sandy.
Wha's been straikin' you against the hair, cratur? It wasna me that
shuved Bandy i' the boiler; but he'd been neen the waur o' a bit steep,
for he trails aboot a clorty-like sicht. Him speak aboot the watter
supply! It's no' muckle he kens aboot the watter supply, or the soap
supply ether."