that, it's as fac's ocht, I'll rin awa' an' join the mileeshie. I wud
raither be blawn into minch wi' an' echty-ton gun than stand ony mair
o' your gab."
"Tut, tut, Sandy," says I, "keep on your dickie, man. Ye're no'
needin' to get into a pavey like that. Keep me, fowk wud think ye was
discussin' the auld kirk questin, the wey you're roarin'. The
mileeshie wudna hae you at ony rate, an' we're no' juist dune wi' ye at
hame yet. But neist time you're makin' a speech, Sandy, dinna try an'
stand on ae leg. That's what put ye aff the straucht. Ye see----"
I lookit roond, an' Sandy wasna there. When I turned, here's him
fleein' in the Sands wi' his fingers in his lugs, like spring-heeled
Jeck. I tell ye, that man winna heed a single wird I say till him.
XVI.
SANDY'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
Oh, wheesht! When Sandy's on for doin' something special, he nearhand
aye mak's a gutter o't some wey or ither. On Setarday nicht he was
gaen aboot hostin', an' spittin', an' sayin' ilky noo an' than, "Ay,
Bawbie; it's a fine nicht the nicht." He sweepit oot ahent the washin'
soda barrel twa-three times; then he rowed up the tnock that ticht that
she's never steered a meenit sin' syne. He took the hammer an' ca'd a'
the coals fair into koom, an' then he redd up at the back shop till I
cudna lay my hands on a single thing 'at I wantit. I saw fine there
was something i' the wind; but, do my best, I cudna jaloose what it was.
He put on the shop shutters, an' syne screwed aff the gas at the meeter
afore I got the bawbees oot o' the till, an' stack in, ye never saw the
like. He was that anxious to gie me a hand that he hendered me near
half an 'oor.
This gaed on a' Sabbath! He was three times at the kirk, an' he
roostit an' sang till the bit lassies i' the very koir lookit aboot
akinda feard like. But Sandy never jowed his jundie. He put in
anither button o' his coat, an' stack in till the Auld Hunder like the
Jook o' Wellinton at the battle o' Waterloo. The koir sang an anthem
i' the efternune, an' Sandy sang anither at the same time, the rest o'
the fowk harkenin' to the competition. Sandy gaed squawlin' an'
squawkin' up an' doon amon' the quivers, an' through the middle o' what
he ca'd the cruchits, juist like a young pairtrick amon' a pozel o'
hag. Mistress Glendie, that sits at the tap o' oor seat, is a bit o' a
singer, an' she put back her lugs an' skooled like a fountin' mule at
Sandy, oot at the corner o' her specks; but Sandy never lut dab. His
een, when he hadna his nose buried in his book, were awa' i' the roof
o' the kirk, an' Mistress Glendie never got a squawk in ava, eksep when
Sandy was swallowin' his spittal.
Gaen to the kirk at nicht was something to mind aboot. There wasna a
lamp to be seen--an' sic roads! The very laddies frae the Sabbath
Schule were gaen on the paidmint, whaur there were maist gutters, an'
skowf kickin' them at ane anither. The middle o' the road cudna haud
the can'le to the paidmints for glaur lest Sabbath. Sandy an' me gaed
kloiterin' alang the Port, Sandy yatterin' ilky noo-an'-than--"Keep on
the plennies, 'oman." He was keepin' his e'e on his feet that steady,
that, afore I kent whaur I was, he had baith o's wammlin' aboot amon'
the gutters doon the Dens. He'd taen the wrang side o' the dyke at the
fit o' the High Road, an' awa' doon the brae instead o' up! We saw the
muckle lamp up abune the brig juist like a lichthoose twenty mile awa'.
Sandy was widin' aboot amon' the mud, an' his lorn shune liftin' wi' a
noisy gluck, juist like a pump aff the fang.
"I think this is shurely the Sloch o' Dispond we've gotten intil,
Bawbie," says he.
"It looks liker the Wardmill Dam," says I, I says; "but if I get oot
o't livin', I'll lat the pileece hear o't. A gey Lichtin' Commitee we
have, to hae fowk wammlin' aboot i' the mirk like this on their wey to
the kirk! There's ower muckle keepin' fowk i' the dark a' roond," says
I, I says; "an' there maun be an end till't. It's a perfeck scandal."
Juist at this meenit Sandy got grips o' the railin' o' the stair, an'
him an' me got ane anither trailed up some wey or ither. Gin I got on
the paidmint, I was slippin' here an' there like some lassie on the
skeetchin' pond, till doon I skaikit, skloit on the braid o' my back,
an' left my life-size engravin' i' the middle o' the road. Eh, it was
a gude thing I didna hae on my best frock! I shiftit at tea-time, for
thae gutters mak' sic a dreedfu' mairter o' a body.
"It's a black, burnin' shame," says Sandy, as he gaithered me up; "an'
I howp some o' thae Lichtin' Commitee chappies 'ill get a dook amon'
the gutters the nicht for this pliskie o' theirs. It's a fine nicht
fort. Fowk peyin' nae end o' rates, an' a' the streets as dark as a
cell--a sell it is, an' nae mistak'. Feech! I tell ye, what it is an'
what it's no', Bawbie----"
"Wheesht, Sandy," says I. "Keep me, if ye go on rantin' like that, the
fowk 'ill think ye've startit the street preachin'. Haud your lang
tongue. I'm no' michty muckle the waur."
Sandy took oot his tnife an' gae me a bit skrape; an' we landit at the
kirk an' got a rale gude sermon aboot the birkie 'at belanged to
Simaria an' fell on his road hame, an' so on. I wasna muckle the waur
o't efter a'--o' the fa', I mean, of coorse, no' the sermon--an', when
we got hame, I got aff my goon; an' tho' Sandy gae the Lichtin'
Commitee an' the gutter-raikers a gey haf-'oor's throo the mill, I
didna think muckle mair aboot it.
But, as I was sayin', this was a' leadin' up to something. Sandy cudna
sit still at nicht, an' he sang an' smokit till, atween bein' deaved
an' scumfished, I was nearhand seek. Efter readin' oor chapter, I gaed
awa' to my bed. I lookit up twa-three times an' saw Sandy sittin'
afore the fire, twirlin' his thooms, an' gien a bit whistle noo an'
than. Efter a while he put oot the gas, an' syne began to tak' aff his
claes, an' wide aboot amon' the furniture as uswal. He got intil his
bed efter a quarter o' an oor's miscellaneous scramblin', an' was sune
snorin' like a dragoon.
When I got atower i' the mornin', what is there sittin' on my chair but
a great muckle shortie in a braw box, wi' a Christmas caird on the tap
o't. When I opened the box here's ane o' my stockin's lyin' on the tap
o' a great big cake, juist like this:--
To
B. BOWDEN
from a
F IEND
I lookit anower at Sandy, an' here's him lyin' wi' a look on his face
like's he was wantin' on the Parochial Buird.
"Eh, Sandy! What a man you are!" I says, says I; for, mind you, I was
a richt prood woman on Munanday mornin'.
"It was Sandy Claws, 'oman," says he, lauchin'. "He cudna get the box
into your stockin', so he juist put your stockin' into the box. But
it's juist sax an' half a dizzen, I suppose."
I hude up the cake to the licht, an' read oot the braw white sugar
letters--"'To B. Bowden from a Fiend.' But wha's the fiend, Sandy?"
says I, I says.
"Fiend!" roared Sandy, jumpin' ooten his bed. "Lat's see't."
He glowered at the cake like's he was tryin' to mismerise somebody; an'
then he says, "See a haud o' my troosers there, Bawbie. I'll go doon
an' pet that baker through his mixin' machine. I'll lat him see what
kind o' a fiend I am. I'll fiend him."
"Hover a blink, Sandy," says I. "Here's ane o' the letters stickin' to
my stokin'." Shure eneuch, here was a great big "R" stickin' to the
ribs o' my stockin'; so I juist took a lickie glue an' stak her on the
cake, an' made it read a' richt. Sandy was rale pleased when he saw me
so big aboot my cake; an' he's been trailin' in aboot a' the neepers to
see "the wife's cake," as he ca's't. An' he stands wi' his thooms i'
the oxter holes o' his weyscot, an' lauchs, an' says, "Tyuch; naething
ava; no wirth speakin' aboot," when I tell them hoo big I am aboot it.
She's genna be broken on Munanday--Nooeer's-day. If you're pasain' oor
wey, look in an' get a crummie. I'll be richt gled to see you, I'm
shure. A happy noo 'ear to you, when it comes--an' mony may ye see!
Ah-hy! Gude-day wi' ye i' the noo than! Imphm! Gude-day. See an'
gie's a cry in on Munanday, noo-na. Ta-ta!
XVII.
AT THE SELECT CHOIR'S CONCERT.
Sin' Friday nicht I've been gaen aboot wi' my hert an' moo fu' o'
musik! Eh, hoo I did enjoy yon Gleeka Koir's singin'. I hinna heard
onything like it for mony a day. D'ye ken, fine musik juist affeks me
like a gude preechin'--an' waur whiles. I canna help frae thinkin'
aboot it. The tune I've been hearin' 'ill come into my heid at a'
times; an' here I'll be maybe croonin' awa' i' the shop to mysel' "Will
ye no' come back again?" an' gien somebody mustard instead o' peysmeal,
an', of coorse, it comes back again, an' a gey wey o' doin' wi't, an'
nae mistak'.
But, eh, I enjoyed the Burns Club concert! Sandy an' me was doon at
the hall on the back o' seven o'clock, an' we got set doon at the end
o' ane o' the farrest-forrit sixpenny seats, an' got a lean on the back
o' ane o' the shilliny anes. We was gey gled we gaed doon early, for
the hall was foo juist in a clap; an' gin aucht o'clock, Sandy tells
me, they were offerin' half-a-croon to get their lug to the keyhole.
It was an awfu' crush.
There was a gey pompis-like carlie cam' an' tried to birz Sandy an' me
up the seat; but Sandy sune made a job o' him.
"Have you a ticket?" says Sandy.
"Ay, have I," says the carlie, curlin' up his lips gey snappish-like;
"I have a three-shillin' ticket."
"Ay, weel, awa' oot o' this," says Sandy. "This is the sikey seats,
an' we dinna want ony o' you chappies poachin' amon' his lads. If
you've only a three-shilliny ticket, you'll awa' oot o' this, gey
smert," says Sandy; an' a lot o' the fowk backit him up, an' faigs,
mind ye, the carlie had to crawl awa' forrit again, whaur he cam' frae.
The cheek o' the cratur! Thocht, mind ye, he wud get crushed in amon'
his sikey fowk wi' his three-shilliny ticket!
Whenever the singin' began ye wudda heard a preen fa'. "There was a
lad was born in Kyle," juist nearhand garred Sandy jump aff his seat.
He cud hardly keep his feet still, an' he noddit his heid frae side to
side, an' leuch, like's he was some noo-married king drivin' awa' throo
the streets o' London till his honeymune. Syne at "My luve she's like
a reed, reed rose," he smakit his lips, an' turned his een up to the
ruif, an' lookit to me twa-three times like's he was genna tak' a dwam
o' some kind. That used to be a favourite sang o' Pecker Donnit's when
he precentit up at Dimbarrow. Eh, mony's the time I've heard him at
it. Ye'll mind fine o' the Peeker? He bade ower i' yon cottar hoose,
wast a bittie frae the Whin Inn. He had twa dochters, ye'll mind, an'
a he-cat that killed whitterits wi' a blind e'e. Eh, ay; that's mony a
lang day syne! But I'm awa' frae my story.
I cudna tell ye which o' the bits I likeit best. I juist sat nearhand
a' nicht fairly entranced. I thocht yon twa kimmers that sang "The
Banks an' Braes o' Bonnie Boon" did awfu' pritty. Raley, my hert was
i' my moo twa-three times when they were at the bitties whaur they sang
laich, juist like the sooch-soochin' o' the hairst wind i' the
forenicht amon' the stocks. Sandy was sweengin' aboot in his seat,
like's he was learnin' the velocipede, an' takin' a lang breath ilky
noo-an'-than, an' sayin', "Imphm; ay, man; juist that." He riffed when
the lassies sat doon, till ye wud thocht he wudda haen his hands
blistered; but I think he was gled o' onything to do, juist to lat him
get himsel' gien vent.
When the koir startit to sing aboot Willie Wastle, Sandy nickered awa'
like a noo-spain'd foal, an' aye when they cam' to the henmist line o'
the verse he gae me a prog i' the ribs wi' his elba, as much as to say,
"That's ane for you, Bawbie!" But I watched him, an' at the henmist
verse, when they said terriple quick, "I wudna gie a button for her," I
juist edged alang a bittie, an' Sandy's elba missin', he juist exakly
landit pargeddis in a fisherwife's lap that was sittin' ahent's. There
was plenty o' lauchin' an' clappin' whaur we was, I can tell ye.
I likeit "Scots wha hae," an' the "Macgregor's Gaitherin'." I thocht
yon was juist grand. When they were singin' "Scots wha hae," Sandy
glowered a' roond aboot him like's he wudda likeit to ken if onybody
wantit a fecht. What a soond there was at the strong bits. The feint
a ane o' me kens whaur yon men an' weemin' get a' yon soond. At some
o' the lines o' the "Macgregor's Gaitherin'" it was like the wind
thunderin' doon Glen Tanner, or the Rooshyan guns at Sebastypool. I
cudna help frae notisin' hoo it garred a'body sit straucht up. When
yon lassie was singin' sae bonnie, "John Anderson, my Jo," a' the
fowk's heids were hingin'; but at "Scots wha hae" they sat up like life
gairds, and ilky body near me lookit like's it wudna be cannie speakin'
to them.
There was ae thing they sang that wasna on the programme that I thocht
awfu' muckle o'. It was something aboot "Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!" Ane
o' the lassies sang a bit hersel' here an' there, an' eh, what splendid
it was. She gaed up an' doon amon' the notes juist like forkit
lichtnin', an her voice rang oot as clear as a bell. It was raley
something terriple pritty. When she feenished ye wudda thocht the fowk
was genna ding doon the hoose. "Man, that raley snecks a' green thing;
it fair cowps the cairt ower onything ever I heard," says Sandy, gien
his nose a dicht wi' the back o' his hand. "That dame has raley a
grand pipe; ye wud winder whaur she fand room for a' the wind she maun
need." A foll curn fowk startit to the lauchin' when Sandy said this;
but, faigs, mind ye, the lassie fairly astonished me.
When the votes o' thanks were gien oot, Sandy riffed an' rattled oot o'
a' measure. I thocht ance or twice he wud be up to the pletform to say
a wird or twa himsel', he was that excited. Syne when "Auld Lang Syne"
was mentioned, he sprang till his feet, evened his gravat, pulled doon
his weyscot, put a' the buttons intil his coat, an' swallowed a
spittal. An' hoo he tootit an' sang! I thocht the precentor that was
beatin' time lookit across at him twa-three times, he was roostin' an'
roarin' at sic a rate. He sang at the pitch o' his voice--
Shud auld acquantance be forgot,
An' never brocht to mind,
an' syne gien me a great daud on the shuder wi' his elba, he says,
"Sing quicker, Bawbie"--
For the days o' auld langsyne.
There was a fisher ahent's that strak' in wi' the chorus an' made an'
awfu' gutter o't. He yalpit awa' a' on ae note, juist like's he was
roarin' to somebody to lowse the penter; an' though Sandy keepit gaen,
he was in a richt raise.
"That roarin' nowt's juist makin' a pure soss o't," he says, when we
finished. "Ye wud easy ken he had learned his singin' at the sea"; an'
he glowered roond at him gey ill-natir'd like, an' says, "Haud your
tung, ye roarin' cuif." Syne he grippit the fisher's hand wi' ane o'
his, an' mine wi' the ither, an' startit--
An' here's a hand, my trusty fraend, eksettera.
The fisher lookit gey dumfoondered like, an' never lut anither peek;
but Sandy stack in like a larry-horse till the feenish, an' he cam'
hame a' the road sayin', "Man, that's raley been a treat!"
It was that, an' nae mistak', an' as the chairman said, it'll be a
memorable concert to mony a ane.
XVIII.
SANDY RUNS A RACE.
Weel, I'll tell ye what it is, an' what it's no'--I thocht the ither
nicht that Sandy had gotten to the far end o' his ongaens. If ever a
woman thocht she was genna hae to don her weeda's weeds, it was me. I
never expeckit to see Sandy again, till he was brocht in on the police
streetchin' buird. But I'll better begin my story at the beginnin'.
What needs I care whuther fowk kens a' aboot it, or no'? I've been
black affrontit that often, I dinna care a doaken noo what happens.
I've dune my best to be a faithfu' wife; an' I'm shure I've trauchled
awa' an' putten up wi' a man that ony ither woman wudda pushon'd twenty
'ear syne! But that's nether here nor there.
Weel, to get to my story. Aboot a week syne I was busy at the back
door, hingin' oot some bits o' things, an', hearin' some din i' the
back shop, I took a bit glint in at the winda. Fancy my surprise, when
here's Sandy i' the middle o' the flure garrin' his airms an' legs flee
like the shakers o' Robbie Smith's "deevil."
"What i' the earth is he up till noo?" says I to mysel'. He stoppit
efter a whilie, an' syne my lad quietly tnaks twa raw eggs on the edge
o' a cup, an' doon his thrapple wi' them. He brook up the shalls into
little bitties an' steered them in amon' the ase, so's I wudna see
them. Atower to the middle o' the flure he comes again, an', stridin'
his legs oot, he began to garr first the tae airm an' syne the tither
gae whirlin' roond an' roond like the fly wheel o' an engine. It
mindit me o' the schule laddies an' their bummers. Weel, than; I goes
my wa's into the hoose.
"Ay, it's a fine thing an egg, Sandy," says I; "especially twa." I
turned roond to the dresser-heid, no' to lat him see me lauchin'--for I
cudna keep it in--an' pretendit to be lookin' for something.
"It is so, Bawbie," says he; an' I noticed him i' the lookin'-gless
pettin' his thoom till his nose. I whiskit roond aboot gey quick, an'
he drappit his hands like lichtnin', an' began whistlin' "Tillygorm."
"I've heard it said," says I, "that a raw egg's gude for a yooky nose."
"You're aye hearin' some blethers," says he; "but there's Robbie
Mershell i' the shop"; an' but he ran to sair him.
I kent fine there was something up, so I keepit my lugs an' een open,
but it beat me to get at the boddom o't. Pottie Lawson, Bandy Wobster,
an' Sandy have juist been thick an' three faud sin the Hielant games
toornament, an' I kent fine there was some pliskie brooin' amon' them.
They've hardly ever been oot o' the washin'-hoose, them an' twa-three
mair. Great, muckle, hingin'-aboot, ill-faured scoonges, every ane o'
them! I tell ye, Sandy hasna dune a hand's turn for the lest week, but
haikit aboot wi' them, plesterin' aboot this thing an' that. Feech!
If I was a man, as I'm a woman, I wud kick the whole box an' dice o'
them oot the entry.
I gaed by the washin'-hoose door twa-three times, an' heard the
spittin', an' the ochin' an' ayin', an' some bletherin' aboot
sprentin', an' rubbin' doon, an' sic like; but I cud mak' nether heid
nor tail o't. But, I can tell ye, baith heid an' tail o't cam' oot on
Setarday nicht.
Sandy, as uswal, put on his goshores on Setarday efternune, an' awa' he
gaed aboot five o'clock, an' I saw nae mair o' him till the lang legs
o' him---- But you'll learn aboot that sune eneuch. It was a sicht,
the first sicht I got o' him, I can tell you.
I was takin' a bit cuppie o' tea to mysel' aboot seven o'clock, for I
had been terriple busy a' forenicht. Nathan was stanin' at the table
as uswal, growk-growkin' awa' for a bit o' my tea biskit. "I dinna
like growkin' bairns," I says to Nathan, juist as I was genna gie him a
bit piece an' some noo grozer jeel on't.
"I'm no' carin'," he says, blawin' his nose atween his finger an' his
thoom, an' syne dichtin't wi' his bonnet. "I wasna growkin'; but at
ony rate I'll no tell ye aboot Sandy. He said he wud gie me a
letherin' if I was a clash-pie; but I was juist genna tell you, but
I'll no' do't noo," an' oot at the door he gaed. I cried on him to
come back, but, yea wud!
I saw nae mair o' him for half an 'oor, when in he comes to the back
shop wi' a bundle o' claes an' flang them i' the flure. "There's
Sandy's claes," says he. "I got them frae Bandy Wobster at the tap o'
the street. He got them lyin' oot the Sands, an' he disna ken naething
aboot Sandy."
"O, Alick Bowden," I says to mysel', says I; "I kent this would be the
end o't some day! He's gane awa' dookin' an' gotten himsel' drooned.
O, my puir man! I howp they'll get his body, or never anither bit o'
fish will I eat! There's Mistress Mertin fand a galace button in a
red-waur codlin's guts lest week; an' it's no' so very lang syne sin'
Mistress Kenawee got fower bits o' skellie i' the crap o' a colomy.
Puir Sandy! I winder hoo they'll do wi' the bural society bawbees?"
"Is Sandy deid, Bawbie?" says Nathan.
"Ay; I doot he's deid, Nathan, laddie," says I.
"An' will you lat me get a ride on the dickie at the bural, Bawbie?"
says Nathan, clawin' his heid throo a hole in his glengairy.
"Haud your tongue, laddie," says I; "ye dinna ken what you're speakin'
aboot."
I gaithered up the claes. There was nae mistakin' them. They were
Sandy's! The breeks pooches were foo o' nails an' strings, an' as
muckle ither rubbish as you wudda gotten in Peattie Broon's, the
pigman's, back shop. There was a lot o' fiddle rozit i' the weyscot,
an' a box o' queer-lookin' ointment ca'd auntie stuff. But what strack
me first was that his seamit an' his drawers werena there. "Cud he
gane in dookin' wi' them on?" thocht I to mysel'. I cudna see throo't
ava.
I gaed awa' to the shop door juist to look oot, an' I sees Pottie
Lawson, Bandy Wobster, an' twa-three mair at the tap o' the street
lauchin' like ony thing. I throo the key i' the door in a blink, an'
up the street I goes. Pottie was juist in the middle o' a great
hallach o' a lauch, when I grippit him by the collar. He swallowed the
rest o' his lauch, I can tell you.
"What hae ye dune till my man, ye nesty, clorty, ill-lookin',
mischeevious footer?" I says, giein' him a shak' that garred him turn
up the white o' his een.
"Tak' your hand off me, you ill-tongued bissam," saya he, "or I'll lay
your feet fest for you."
"Will you?" says I; an' I gae him a shuve that kowpit him
heels-ower-heid ower the tap o' Gairner Winton's ae-wheeled barrow,
that was sittin' ahent him. When he got himsel' gaithered oot amon'
the peycods an' cabbitch, he was genna be at me, but Dauvid Kenawee
stappit forrit, an' says he, "Saira ye richt, ye gude-for-naething
snipe 'at ye are. Lift a hand till her, an' I'll ca' the chafts o' ye
by ither."
"What bisness hae you shuvin' your nose in?" says Pottie Lawson.
"There was naebody middlin' wi' you."
"Juist you keep your moo steekit, Pottie," says Dauvid, "or I'll mibby
be middlin' wi' you. You're a miserable pack o' vagues, a' the lot o'
ye, to gae wa' an' tak' advantage o' an' auld man! Yah! Damish your
skins, I cud thrash the whole pack o' ye." He up wi' his niv an' took
a hawp forrit. Pottie gaed apung ower the barrow again, an' sat doon
on the tap o' the Gairner, wha was busy gaitherin' up his gudes.
"Come awa', Bawbie," says Dauvid, takin' a haud o' my airm, "Sandy 'ill
turn up yet." So awa' we gaed, leavin' the fower or five o' them
wammlin' awa' amon' the cabbitch, juist like what swine generally do
when they get in amon' a gairner's stocks.
"Sandy's a fulish man," said Dauvid, when we landit at the shop door.
"Ye micht as weel tell me that twice twa's fower, Dauvid," says I.
"Fulish is no' the wird for't."
"There's been some haiverin' amon' them aboot rinnin'; an' Sandy, like
an auld fule, had been bouncin' aboot what he could do," gaed on
Dauvid, withoot mindin' what I said. "Sandy's fair gyte aboot fitba'
an' harryin' an' sic like ploys. Weel-a-weel, Pottie Lawson an'
twa-three mair o' them got Sandy to mak' a wadger o' five bob that he
wud rin three miles in twenty-five meenits oot the Sands, an' they tell
me Sandy's been oot twa-three times trainin' himsel'. To mak' a lang
story short--Bandy Wobster gae me the particulars--the race cam' aff
the nicht. Sandy strippit juist doon at the second slippie on the
Sands yonder. He keepit naething on but his inside sark, an' his
drawers, an' a pair o' slippers, an' aff he set to rin ootby to the
targets an' back. He wasna fower meenits awa' when the lot o' the
dirty deevils--that I shud ca' them sic a name--gaithered up Sandy's
claes an' cam' their wa's in the road, leavin' Sandy to get hame the
best wey he cud. Bandy Wobster gae the claes to Nathan at the tap o'
the street, an' tell'd him he fand them on the Sands."
"But whaur'll Sandy be?" says I.
"That's mair than I can tell, Bawbie; but I'll rin doon for the
mistress, an' she'll look efter the shop till we gae oot the Sands an'
see if we can fa' in wi' him," said Dauvid.