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I took a bit peek in at the winda, an' here's Sandy merchin' aboot wi' the horse cover tied up in a bundle in ae hand, an' a stick i' the ither. He stoppit in the tume staw an' laid doon his bundle rale smert like; syne he lookit ower the buird to Donal', an' says, in an Englishy kind o' a voice, "Twa return tickets third-class an' back to Edinboro!" I saw syne what he was at!
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 wad flee nae mair nor a deid deuke i' this weather. It wad be frozen as stiff's a buird." "Ye gowk! Do ye think fowk wash their flags afore they hing them oot, like sarks or sheets? Dinna ye be ower clever, Curly, my man." Whereupon Curly shut up. "What are you in such a state about, Alec?" asked his mother. "Nothing very particular, mamma," answered Alec, ashamed of his want of self-command.
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.
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