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Dod, they pappit ane anither wi' proverbs juist like skule laddies wi' snawba's. "There's Moses Certricht's wife awa' by there," says Mistress Kenawee, pointin' oot at the winda. "She's a clorty, weirdless-lookin' cratur. I'm dootin' Moses hasna muckle o' a hame wi' her, the gloidin' tawpie 'at she is." "Eh, haud your tongue!" said Mistress Mollison.
"Go on, Jock," says ane o' them, gien anither ane a shuve forrit. "You're the captain; speak you." Jock gae a host, an' syne layin' his hand a gey clorty ane it was on the coonter, an' stanin' on ae fit, he says "Isyin?" "Wha micht he be?" says I. "Sandy," said the captain. "What Sandy?" says I. "No," said ane o' the birkies ahent; "your Sandy Sandy Bowden."
Pottie was juist in the middle o' a great hallach o' a lauch, when I grippit him by the collar. He swallowed the rest o' his lauch, I can tell you. "What hae ye dune till my man, ye nesty, clorty, ill-lookin', mischeevious footer?" I says, giein' him a shak' that garred him turn up the white o' his een.
He was up to the neck amon' the claes I had steepin' for the morn's washin'. The nesty footer that he was, I cudda dune I kenna what till him. "Ye great, big, clorty, tarry beast," I roared in at the winda; "come oot amon' my claes this meenit, or I'll come in an' kin'le the fire, an' boil ye."
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