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As he crossed the Roods, Gavin saw a gleam of red-coats. In the back wynd he heard a bugle blown. A stir in the Banker's close spoke of another seizure. At the top of the school wynd two policeman, of whom one was Wearyworld, stopped the minister with the flash of a lantern. "We dauredna let you pass, sir," the Tilliedrum man said, "without a good look at you. That's the orders."
"Mother, is this possible?" Gavin said. "The policeman, Wearyworld, has told it. He was ordered, it seems, to look for the cloak quietly, and to take any one into custody in whose possession it was found." "Has it been found?" "No." The minister walked out of the parlour, for he could not trust his face. What was to be done now?
"I hereby swear," said Wearyworld, authoritatively, "that this is no the Egyptian. Signed, Peter Spens, policeman, called by the vulgar, Wearyworld. Mr. Dishart, you can pass, unless you'll bide a wee and gie us your crack." "You have not found the gypsy, then?" Gavin asked. "No," the other policeman said, "but we ken she's within cry o' this very spot, and escape she canna."
Ay, here comes Wearywarld to speak up for me." Wearyworld entered cheerfully. "This is the local policeman," a Tilliedrum officer said; "we have been searching for him everywhere, and only found him now." "Where have you been?" asked the sheriff, wrathfully. "Whaur maist honest men is at this hour," replied Wearyworld; "in my bed." "How dared yon ignore your duty at such a time?"
Rob wandered to the Kaims in search of the Egyptian, and returned home no happier. He flung himself upon his bed and dared Micah to light the lamp. About gloaming he rose, unable to keep his mouth shut on his thoughts any longer, and staggered to the Tenements to consult Haggart. He found the humourist's door ajar, and Wearyworld listening at it.
The folk thinks it's a woman that's getting in his way, but dinna tell me that about sic a scholar; I tell you he would gang ower a toon o' women like a loaded cart ower new-laid stanes." Wearyworld hobbled after me up the Roods one day, pelting me with remarks, though I was doing my best to get away from him.
That was ay Rob's way, converted or no converted. When he was blind drunk he would order me to see him safe hame, but would he crack wi' me? Na, na." Wearyworld, who was so called because of his forlorn way of muttering, "It's a weary warld, and nobody bides in't," as he went his melancholy rounds, sighed like one about to cry, and Gavin changed the subject.
Dishart," Wearyworld whispered, "that the Egyptian diddled baith the captain and the shirra? It's my official opinion that she's no better than a roasted onion, the which, if you grip it firm, jumps out o' sicht, leaving its coat in your fingers. Mr. Dishart, you can pass."
He changed his tactics. "A fine nicht for the time o' year," he cried. No answer. "But I wouldna wonder," he shouted, "though we had rain afore morning." No answer. "Surely you could gie me a word frae ahint the door. You're doing an onlawful thing, but I dinna ken wha you are." "You'll swear to that?" some one asked gruffly. "I swear to it, Peter." Wearyworld tried another six remarks in vain.
The next day was Sabbath, when a new trial, now to be told, awaited Gavin in the pulpit; but it had nothing to do with the cloak, of which I may here record the end. Wearyworld had not forwarded it to its owner; Meggy, his wife, took care of that. It made its reappearance in Thrums, several months after the riot, as two pairs of Sabbath breeks for her sons, James and Andrew.
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