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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.
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.
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