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"Hoots, toots, Andra!" cried Duncan Polite reprovingly, "it's jist violent you will be; and, indeed, I will be thinkin' it would not be right to drive the young folks." "The Maister drove oot wi' a scourage them as misused the hoose o' God," responded the apostle of force severely. "Aye, the Master," said Duncan, his fine face lighting up. "The Master!" he repeated the word tenderly.
About six o'clock, the time announced for the ceremony, I elbowed my way through the expectant throng of men, women, and children that already besieged the smith's door. Shrill demands of "Toss, toss!" rent the air every time Jess's head showed on the window-blind, and Andra hoped, as I pushed open the door, "that I hadna forgotten my bawbees."
Ralph ran swiftly down the great dyke in a manner more natural to a young man than dignified in a poet. In a minute he came to the edge of the glen in which Andra Kissock had guddled the trouts. That flash of layender must pass this way. It passed and stayed.
Andrew was her youngest, a growing lump of a boy of twelve, who was exceeding silent in the house. Every day Andra betook himself to school, along the side of Loch Grannoch, by the path which looked down on the cloud-flecked mirror of the loch. Some days he got there, but very occasionally. His mother had got him ready early this June morning. He had brought in the kye for Jess.
M'Cosh said, "Awa wi' ye, laddie," and "Sic havers," but after much urging owned that she knew a song which had been a favourite with her Andra. It was sung to the tune of "When the kye come hame," and was obviously a parody on that lyric, beginning: "Come a' ye Hieland pollismen That whustle through the street, An' A'll tell ye a' aboot a man That's got triple expansion feet.
From the castle northward curves Embleton Bay, in which, after having been buried in the sand for ages, a sandstone rock was uncovered by the tide, having on its surface, chiselled in rough but distinct lettering, the name "Andra Barton."
"Weel," his widow explained, "ye see, Andra wis a Socialist an' thocht naething o' lords naething. I used to show him pictures o' them in the Heartsease Library fine-lukin' fellays wi' black mustacheys but he juist aye said, 'It's easy to draw a pictur', and he wouldna own that they wis onything but meeserable to look at. An', mind you, he wis richt. When I saw the lord in St.
Still, the piquant resentment Winsome felt, gave just that touch, of waywardness and caprice which was needed to make her altogether charming to Ralph, whose acquaintance with women had been chiefly with those of his father's flock, who buzzed about him everywhere in a ferment of admiration. "Your feet are wet," said Winsome, with charming anxiety. Andra was assuredly now far over the moor.
And now that this man who had been the Joshua of his hopes, who was to lead the young people into the promised land of righteousness after their old leader had gone up to his rest, now that he had come out avowedly the promoter of instability and the apostle of fashion, it was too much for Splinterin' Andra.
The light was so dim that I saw only a short, square figure, but a familiar voice whispered in my ear. 'It's me Andra Amos. Man, this is a great ploy. I'm here to see the end o't. No prisoner waiting on the finding of the jury, no commander expecting news of a great battle, ever hung in more desperate suspense than I did during the next seconds.
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