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He roared an' yowled like I kenna what, an' black-gairded reed-het roobarb terts, till I thocht he wudda opened the very earth. "O, haud your tongue, Sandy Bowden!" I cried, my very heid like to rive wi' his yalpin'. "Haud my tongue?" says he. "Hoo can I haud my tongue, an' my airms stewin' amon' boilin' jeelie?"
Batchy spat in his hands, an' set himsel' up for the next ba'. He lut drive at it, but missed, an' doon gaed his wickets. Ye never heard sic a row. "A bloomin' sneak!" roared a' the laddies aside me thegither. "Dinna gae oot, Batchy. It rowed a' the road." There was an awfu' wey-o-doin', an' aboot fifty laddies roond Sandy, a' yalpin' till him at ae time.
There's neen o' you loons 'ill mind o' the meal mobs," said Sandy, "but I mind o' them fine. A gey toon it was i' thae days. You'll notice the auld Toon-Clark i' the middle there, wi' his hands up, threatenin' to send for the pileece, an' a' the crood yalpin' at him like as mony dogs.
"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.
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