garret to throw on my bonnet, takin' Sandy's claes wi' me. Preserve's
a', when I lookit into the garret, here's the skylicht open, an' twa
lang, skranky legs, wi' a pair o' buggers at the end o' them, wammlin'
aboot like twa rattlesnakes tryin' to get to the fluir. I drappit the
claes, oot at the door, an' steekit it ahent me. I keekit in aneth the
door, juist to see what wud happen. Sandy landit cloit doon on the
flure, an' sat sweitin', an' pechin', an' ac'ually greetin'. What a
picture he presentit! I cudna tell ye a' what he said. There were a
lot o' wirds amon't that's no' i' the dictionar'; an' I can tell ye, if
Pottie Lawson an' Bandy Wobster get the half o' what Sandy promised
them, baith in this world an' the next, they'll no hae far to find for
a sair place.
"Man, gin ye'd haen the brains o' a cock spug," I heard him sayin' till
himsel', "ye michta jaloosed they were to play ye some prank. You
muckle, dozent gozlin'," he says; an' he took himsel' a skelp i' the
side o' the heid wi' his open luif that near ca'd him on his back. In
his stagger his feet tickled amon' his claes, an' he gaithered them up,
an' lookit fair dumfoondered like. He put them a' on; an' gyne--what
think you? Puir Sandy ac'ually sat doon an' claspit his hands, an' I
heard him sayin', "I'm an awfu' eedeit, a pure provoke to a' 'at
belangs me! but if I'm forgi'en this time, I'll try an' do better frae
this day forrit. An' I'll gie Pottie Lawson a killin' that he'll no'
forget in a hurry. He'll better waurro, if I get a haud o' him. I'll
lat Bandy Wobster awa' wi't, 'cause he's no' near wyse, an' he's an'
objeck a'ready."
Juist at this meenit Mistress Kenawee cries up the stair, "Are you
there, Bawbie?" an' I had to rin doon. I tell'd them Sandy was hame a'
richt. Dauvid wantit to see him. But, na na! I keepit what I kent o'
Sandy's story to mysel'; an', puir cratur, I was raley sorry for him.
He gaed aboot a' Sabbath rale dementit like; an', i' the efternune, I
cam' in upon him i' the back shop dancin' on the tap o' a seek o' caff,
an' sayin', "Ye'll poach neen this winter, ye----" an' so on.
Atween you an' me, it'll no' be a bawbee's-wirth o' stickin' plester
that'll sair Pottie if Sandy gets his fingers ower him.
"Ay, you cam' in withoot chappin' on Setarday nicht, Sandy," I says,
says I, at brakfast time on Munanday mornin', 'cause I saw fine he
wantit to speak aboot it.
"I'll do the chappin' when I get a grab o' Pottie Lawson," says Sandy.
"But I'll tell you this, Bawbie; when I was jookin' alang by the
roppie, tryin' to get hame, it's as fac's ocht, I thocht twa-three
times o' gaen plunk in amon' the water, an' makin' a feenish o't. I
was that angry an' ashamed. But, man, I ran up throo the yairds,
without onybody seein's, an' got in at the skylicht. I'll swag,
Bawbie, I never was gledder than when I cam' cloit doon on my hurdies
on the garret flure. But, as Rob Roy says, there's a day o' rekinin';
an', by faigs, there'll be some fowk 'ill get the stoor taen oot o'
their jeckits when it comes roond, or my name's no Si Bowden!"
XIX.
SANDY REVENGED.
I was tellin' ye aboot Sandy's caper oot the Sands, when Bandy an'
Pottie Lawson made sic a fule o' him. We'd never seen hint nor hair o'
them here sin' syne; an' I'm shure they're a gude reddance. But wha
shud turn up i' the washin'-hoose the ither nicht but Pottie! He'd
gotten Dauvid Kenawee to speak to Sandy, an' gotten the thing sowdered
up some wey or ither, an' there he was again, as brisk as a bee. But
Sandy wasna that easy pacifeed. He didna say muckle, but I'll swag he
gey Pottie a neg on Teysday nicht that he'll no forget in a
hurry--nether will Mistress Mollison.
Mind ye, I didna think Sandy was so deep. It was a gey trick. Sandy
was determined to pey aff Pottie in his ain coin, an' he had gotten
Bandy Wobster to kollig wi' him to gie Lawson a richt fleg.
There was a big meetin' i' the washin'-hoose nae farrer gane than lest
nicht; an' efter a fell while's crackin', Bandy startit to speak aboot
mismirizin' an' phrenology, an' that kind o' thing. Bandy tell'd aboot
some o' his exploits mismirizin' sailors, an' took on to show aff his
po'ers on Sandy. Sandy was quite open to lat him try his hand; so
Bandy says, "Has ony o' you lads a twa-shilliny bit?"
There was a gude deal o' hostin' an' heid-clawin' at this question,
ilka lad lookin' at his neeper as muckle as to say, "I've naething but
half-soverins i' the noo."
"I can gi'e ye fowerpence o' coppers, if that's ony use to ye," said
Stumpie Mertin, shuvin' his airm up to the elba in his breeks pooch.
There was a burst o' lauchin' at this, an' Sandy says, pointin' wi' his
thoom ower his shuder, "Less noise, you lads, for fear her nabs hears
us." He little thocht that her nabs--that was me, of coorse--was at
the winda hearin' every wird. Thinks I, my carlie, her nabs 'ill lat
you hear something the nicht that'll garr the lugs o' ye dirl.
There wasna a twa-shilliny bit to be gotten, so Bandy had to tak' the
lid o' a sweetie-bottle an' mak' the best o't.
"Noo, Sandy," says he, "juist grip that gey firm atween your finger an'
your thoom, an' stare at it as hard's ye can. Nae winkin' or lookin'
aboot; an', you lads, be quiet. Noo, lat's see ye!"
Sandy took the bottle lid, an' sat doon wi't in's hand, an' stared at
it like's he was lookin' doon intil a draw-wall. A' the billies sat
roond starin' at Sandy, an' Bandy maleengered aboot, playin' capers wi'
his airms, an' dancin' like some daft man. Ye cudda tied the lot o'
them wi' a string, they were that taen up wi' Bandy's capers. He gaed
forrit efter a while an' pettin' his thooms on Sandy's heid, he says,
in a coalman's kind o' a voice, "Sleep, sleep."
"He's awa' wi't," says Bandy, turnin' roond to the rest o' them. They
were sittin' wi' their moos wide open, an' a great deal mair mismirized
than Sandy, I thocht.
Bandy grippit Sandy by the shuders an' heized him up on his feet; an'
there he stuid, wi' his een shut' an' his airms an' legs hingin' like's
he was dreepin' o' water. Bandy shot up his heid an opened his een wi'
his fingers, an' there was Sandy juist like Dominy Sampson i' the
museum.
"Noo," says Bandy, "we'll touch his lauchin' bump"; an' he gae Sandy a
stob aboot the heid wi' his finger, an' Sandy set to the lauchin', ye
never heard the like.
"Stop him, Bandy," says Stumpie Mertin, gey excited, "or he'll lauch
his henderend."
"Peece, vile slave, or I'll dekappytate ye wi' my skittimir," says
Sandy, glowerin' at Stumpie.
"He thinks he's the Shaw o' Persha," says Bandy, fingerin' awa' amon'
Sandy's hair.
Here Sandy took to the greetin', an' grat something fearfu'.
"Bliss me," says Dauvid Kenawee, "I never saw the like o' that. Is he
ac'ually sleepin'?"
"As soond's a tap," says Bandy, an' he touched Sandy again an' stoppit
the greetin'. "Noo, we'll see what like a job he wud mak' o' a speech
at a ward meetin'," continued Bandy; an' he gae Sandy a slap on the
shuder an' says, "Noo, Mester Bowden, we're at a ward meetin', an'
you're stanin' for the Cooncil. There's Pottie Lawson in the chair,
an' it's your turn to speak noo. Lat's hear ye gie them a gude screed
on the topiks of the day."
Sandy gae a bit hauch, an' swallowed a spittal, an' stappin' forrit a
bittie, began--"Mester Chairman----" He gae Pottie a glower that
nearhand knokit him aff the box he was sittin' on. "Mester Chairman,"
says he, "we are gaithered thegither to meet wan anither as fella
ratepayers. If you want a tip-top cooncillor, I'm your man.
Regairdin' this noo kirkyaird bisness, I think it's ridic'lous to spend
the toon's bawbees buyin' buryin' grund for fowk that's no' deid. Time
eneuch to look oot for buryin' grund when fowk's deid. An' lat fowk
bury themsel's, juist as they like. Lat them look oot for their ain
grund, an' no' bather the ratepeyers lookin' oot grund for them. We'll
hae to get oor brakfast frae the Toon Cooncil by an' by, an' it'll a'
go on the rates, that's juist as fac's ocht. A' thing's on' the rates
nooadays, frae births to burals. But I hear wan of my audience cry,
'What aboot the Auld Kirk?' Weel, that's anither question. I think
that the shuner the Auld Kirk's aff the pairis the better. We've
plenty paupirs withoot it. If it canna do withoot parokial relief, lat
it into the puirhoose. That's what they wud do wi' you an' me if we
was needin' on the pairis. What d'ye think o' that? Then there's the
toon's wall an' the herbir. Weel, there's no muckle in ony o' them.
There's hardly ony watter i' the teen, an' there's naething but watter
i' the tither. But mibby if there was a noo licence or twa doon aboot
the shore, there micht be mair traffik i' the herbir. The trustees wud
mibby need to chairge shore dues on lads 'at was landit on the kee
noo-an'-than. They cud be shedild as live stock, altho' they were
half-deid wi' drink an' droonin' thegither. An' noo a wird or twa
aboot----"
Bandy touched Sandy here, an' he stoppit, an' a' the lads clappit their
hands.
Then Bandy gae Sandy a touch here an' there, an' ye never saw the like.
He ate a penny can'le, an' drank half a bottle o' ink, an' I cudna tell
ye a' what. The billies lookit as gin they were gettin' terrifeed at
Sandy, when I noticed him gie Bandy a bit wink on the sly; an' I saw
syne that Sandy was nae mair mismirized than I was.
"There's neen o' ye here 'at Sandy has ony ill-will at," says Bandy;
"we'll see what like his fechtin' bump wirks." Wi' that he gae him a
touch ahent the lug, an' Sandy was layin' aboot him in a wink. "Dinna
touch him, or he'll mittal some o' ye," says Bandy; an' the billies a'
cleared awa' to the ither end o' the washin'-hoose.
A' o' a sudden Sandy grippit an' auld roosty hewk that was lyin' on the
boiler, an' roarin', "Whaur's Pottie Lawson, an' I'll cut his wizand
till him," he made a flee at the door. You never saw sic a scramblin'
an' fleein'. Stumpie Merlin dived in ablo the sofa, an' Dauvid Kenawee
jumpit up on the boiler, an' aff wi' the lid for a shield. Pottie was
gaen bang oot at the door when Sandy grippit him by the cuff o' the
neck. But Pottie sprang oot o' the coat--it wasna ill to get ooten,
puir chield--an' doon the yaird a' he cud flee, wi' Sandy at his tail,
whirlin' the hewk roond his heid, an' skreechin' like the very
mischief. Bandy an' a' the rest cam' fleein' efter Sandy. Pottie took
the yaird dyke at ae loup, an' landit richt on Mistress Mollison's
back, an' sent her bung into the middle o' a lot o' Jacob's ledder 'at
she has growin' in her yaird. She gaed clean oot o' sicht, an' juist
lay an' roared till her man cam' oot an' helpit her into the hoose.
"O, it's the deevil fleein' efter somebody," she said. "An' he has an
auld hewk in his hand, an' I saw the sparks o' feyre fleein' frae his
tail. An' there's aboot sixteen hunder ither deevils at his heels."
On floo Pottie yalpin' "Pileece," "Murder," "Help," wi' Sandy at his
tails, an' the ither half-dizzen followin' up, pechin' like cadgers'
pownies. Pottie gaed clash into Stumpie Mertin's coal cellar, an'
lockit the door i' the inside. Sandy kickit at the door, an' Pottie
yalled like a wild cat. Sandy cam' awa' an' met the ither billies,
an', stoppin' them, tell'd them he was nae mare mismirized than they
were. "I wantit to gie Pottie a fleg, an' I think he's gotten't," says
he. "Him an' me's square noo."
They gaed back to Stumpie's cellar, an' gin this time there were twenty
laddies an' twa pileece roond the door.
"It's Pottie Lawson gane daft," said the laddies to the pileece. "He's
foamin' at the moo."
Efter an awfu' wey o' doin' they got Pottie haled oot o' the cellar an'
hame; an' it's my opinion he'll never be seen in oor washin'-hoose
again; an' I'm shure I'll no' brak' my heart.
But aboot the can'le an' the ink--you mibby winder hoo Sandy manished
to stamack them. I gaed in an' smelt the ink. It was sugarelly
watter, an' the can'le had been cut oot o' a neep an' laid juist whaur
it was handy.
Ye never heard sic lauchin' as there's been sin' the story eekit oot.
Sandy's heid pillydakus amon' them a' noo, an' they think he's peyed
aff Pottie wi' compound interest. It's made Pottie fearder than ever;
they tell me he's been looking efter a job at the Freek bleechin,', so
as to get awa' oot o' the toon for a while.
XX.
SANDY'S APOLOGIA.
"Are ye there, Sandy? Sandy, are ye there? Sandy! I winder whaur
that man'll be? He'll gae awa' an' leave the shop stanin' open to the
street, as gin it were a byre, an' never think naething aboot it! Are
ye there, Sandy?" I heard Bawbie sayin' in her bed the ither mornin'.
"Ay, I'm here," says I. "What are ye yalp-yalpin' at? What d'ye want?
I had throo to the cellar to rin for tatties to Mistress Hasties. What
was ye wantin'?"
"See, look! Ye micht pet the pot on the fire there, an' warm that
drappie pottit-hoach brue; an' ye'll tak' it alang to Mary Emslie,"
said Bawbie. "Puir cratur, she's gotten her death o' cauld some wey or
ither, an' I think she's smittit her bairnie; for when I was yont
yesterday forenune, the puir little thingie was near closed
a'thegither. Juist poor the brue into the flagon, Sandy, an' open the
second lang drawer there, an' ye'll get some bits o' things rowed
thegither, an' tak' them alang an' gie them to Mary. Turn the
lookin'-gless roond this wey a bittie on the dresser there, an I'll
notice in't if onybody comes into the shop, an' tell them to hover a
blink till ye rin yont to Mary's. Rin noo, Sandy, an' speer at Mary if
she has coals an' sticks, an' tell her to keep on a gude fire. Puir
cratur!"
"Mary's a fell lot better the day, she thinks, Bawbie," says I, when I
cam' back; "an' she tell'd me the nurse had been in an' snoddit up her
hoose till her, an' sortit the bairn. Puir cratur, she ac'ually grat
when I gae her the bits o' things for the litlan; an' tell'd me to
thank ye. She was terriple taen up when I said you wasna able to be up
the day, an' howps ye'll be better gin the morn."
"I think I'm better, but I'm awfu' licht i' the heid yet," says Bawbie.
"Ye micht get the pen an' ink, Sandy, an' send a scart or twa to thae
prenter bodies. Juist say I've taen a kind o' a dwam, but that I'll
likely be a' richt again in a day or twa. An' see an' watch your
spellin'. Gin ony o' the wirds are like to beat ye, juist speer at me,
an' I'll gie ye a hand wi' them."
"A' richt than, Bawbie; I'll do that," says I. "Noo, juist try an' get
a sleep for a whilie, an' I'll go ben to the shop dask an' write a
scrift for you."
So noo when I have the chance, I'll better juist mention that Bawbie
got terriple seek i' the forenicht yesterday, an' she hardly ever
steekit an e'e a' lest nicht. An' nether did I, for that pairt o't,
for she byochy-byochied awa' the feck o' the nicht, an' I cudna get
fa'in' ower. But I didna say onything, for I doot I'm to blame,
although I've never lutten dab that I jaloosed ony thing had happened.
Bawbie was juist gaen awa' to hae her efternune cup yesterday, an' I
was chappin' oot the dottle o' my pipe on the corner o' the chumla,
when it flaw oot an' gaed oot o' sicht some wey. I socht heich an'
laich for't, but na, na; it wasna to be gotten. I thocht syne it had
gane into the fire. But it's my opinion noo, it had fa'in' into
Bawbie's teapot! She was sayin' ilky noo-an'-than, "That tea has a
dispert queer taste, Sandy. What can be the maitter wi't?" I never
took thocht; but when Bawbie fell seek, an' groo as white's a penny
lafe, thinks I to mysel', "That's your dottle, Sandy Bowden!" But I
never lut wink; for, keep me, if Bawbie had kent, I micht as weel gane
awa' an' sleepit on the Sands for the next twa-three nichts. She's a
gude-heartit budy; but, man, she gets intil an awfu' pavey whiles, an'
she's nether to hand nor to bind when she gets raised. But, for ony
sake, dinna lat on I was sayin' onything.
Bawbie's an awfu' cratur to tell fowk aboot me an' my ongaens. Weel,
there's a lot o' truth in what she says, I maun admit; altho' she mak's
a heap o' din juist aboot twa-three kyowows, noo-an'-than. I dinna ken
hoo it is ava', I canna help mysel' sometimes. Man, the daftest-like
ideas tak' a haud o' me whiles--juist like a flesher grippin' a sheep
by the horns--an', do what I like, I canna get oot o' their grips.
For instance, I was gaen up the brae juist the ither nicht, an' the
kirk offisher was stanin' at the kirk door.
"Wud ye bide i' the kirk for ten meenits till I rin hame for a bissam
shaft?" says he. "I've broken the ane I have."
"Oo, ay," says I; "I'll do that."
Weel, man, I wasna twa meenits into the kirk when I windered what like
it was for size aside Gayneld Park, an' I thocht I wud see if I cud rin
fower times roond it in five meenits. I buttoned my coat, an' lookit
the time, an' aff I set up ae passage, ower the pletform, doon the
ither passage, throo the lobby, an' so on. I was juist aboot
feenishin' when, gaen sweesh oot at ane o' the doors, I cam' clash up
again' the minister, an' sent him spinnin' into the middle o' the
lobby, an' the collection plate in his oxter.
"What in the name of common sense is the matter with you?" said he,
gettin' up, an' shakin' the stoor aff his hat.
"Man, ye shud keep aff the coorse," says I, forgettin' for the meenit
whaur I was. "I was tryin' to brak' the record."
"Break the record!" he says, in a most terrible fizz. "If it wasna for
the laws of the country, I'd break your head."
Man, the passion o' the sacket was raley veeshis. He ac'ually spat oot
the wirds; an', faigs, I steekit baith my nivs an' keepit my e'e on
him, for fear he micht lat dab at me.
Juist at that meenit the kirk offisher cam' in, an' the minister
turned, an' gleyin' roond at me gey feared like, said something till
him, an' I heard them crackin' aboot gettin' me hame in a cab. I saw
in a wink what they were jaloosin'.
"Ye needna bather your heids ahoot a cab," says I. "I'm wyser than the
twa o' ye puttin' thegither; so keep on your dickies. Gude-nicht,"
says I; an' doon the front staps I gaed, three at a time, an' hame.
The beathel cam' doon afore he gaed hame, an' speered what i' the world
had happened.
"I was juist comin' oot at the kirk door," says I, "when the minister
cam' skelp up again' me." I didna mention 'at I was rinnin'. "The
cratur drappit i' the flure," says I, "like's he'd been shot; an' then
to crack aboot me bein' daft! Did ye ever hear the like?"
The kirk offisher gaed awa' hame, clawin' his heid, an' sayin' till
himsel', "Weel, it raley snecks a' thing. There's some ane o' the
three o's no' very soond i' the tap, shurely; an' whuther it's me or
no', I raley canna mak' oot."
But what I want to lat you see is that I do thae daft-like things
sometimes, I dinna very weel ken hoo. I canna tell ye what wey it
comes aboot. Is ony o' ye lads ever affekit like that? Man, I've seen
me gaen to the kirk wi' Bawbie sometimes, dressed in my sirtoo an' my
lum, an' my gloves an' pocket-hankie, an' a'thing juist as snod's a noo
thripenny bit, an', a' o' a sudden, I wud hae to pet my tongue atween
my teeth, an' grip my umberell like's I was wantin' to chock it, juist
to keep mysel' frae tumblin' a fleepy or a catma i' the middle o' the
road amon' a' the kirk fowk, him hat, sirtoo, an' a'thegither. What
can ye mak' o' the like o that? It's my opinion sometimes that I was
never meent to behave mysel'; an' yet I'm sensible o' doin' most
terriple stewpid things of'en. It's a mystery to me, an' a dreefu'
dwang to Bawbie. But what can ye do? You canna get medisin for that
kind o' disease! As Bawbie says, I'll never behave till I'm killed;
an' the fac' o' the maitter is, I'm no' very shure aboot mysel' even
efter that. I ken it's an awfu' job for Bawbie tholin' my ongaens;
but, at the same time, if it wasna me, the neeper wives an her wudna
hae onything to mak' a molligrant aboot ava. As the Bible says, we're
fearfu' an' winderfu' made, an', I suppose, we maun juist mak' the best
o't.
THE END.