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"He's bocht him gey sune, I'm thinking," says the policeman. "Gin he'd waited a fortnicht, he'd gotten him at twintypence the hunderwecht." Sandy never lut dab 'at he heard them. The cairt was a' ready an' Sandy got up on the front and startit. A' gaed richt till he got to the Loan, when Princie startit to trot.
I saw the whole thing in a blink, but never lut wink, an' Sandy was fient a hair the better or the waur o' Meg's man's mistak'. We got a grand denner something specific. "This is a kind o' a haiver o' buff, Mistress Blair," said Sandy, when we got set doon; but I gae him a kick throo ablo the table that garred him tak' his tongue atween his teeth.
The luti himself is filled with envy and covetousness at the immense drawing powers of the bicycle; and in a burst of confidence wants to know if I am an "Ingilis lut;" at the same time placing his forefingers together as an intimation that if I am we ought by all means to form a combination and travel the country together.
He croonshed doon, an' jookit frae side to side, an' then jamp straucht up an' lut flee at something wi' the bissam shaft. Syne he stack the end o' the stick i' the flure, an' bored an' grunted like's he was rammin't through a pavemint steen.
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.
"That's anither settle't," says he, pullin' up his stick; an' gie'n't a dicht wi' the tails o' his kilt; syne makin' a kick at something wi' his berfit fit "Let us do or die," says he; "Scots wha hae; Wallace an' Bruce for ever; doon wi' every bloomin' Englisher; rip them up; koo-heel!" Then he whiskit half-roond aboot, an' lut flee at a seckie o' caff I had sittin' in a corner.
She was sayin' ilky noo-an'-than, "That tea has a dispert queer taste, Sandy. What can be the maitter wi't?" I never took thocht; but when Bawbie fell seek, an' groo as white's a penny lafe, thinks I to mysel', "That's your dottle, Sandy Bowden!" But I never lut wink; for, keep me, if Bawbie had kent, I micht as weel gane awa' an' sleepit on the Sands for the next twa-three nichts.
It was twa strucken 'oors afore he got to the shop door wi' the cairt, an' baith him an' the horse were sweitin' afore they startit on his roonds. Sandy was lookin' gey raised like, so I lut him get on a' his tatties an' said naething. Stumpie Mertin cam' by, an', lookin' at Princie, gae his heid a claw. "What are ye stanin' glowerin' at?" says Sandy till him, gey snappit like.
Mistress Glendie, that sits at the tap o' oor seat, is a bit o' a singer, an' she put back her lugs an' skooled like a fountin' mule at Sandy, oot at the corner o' her specks; but Sandy never lut dab. His een, when he hadna his nose buried in his book, were awa' i' the roof o' the kirk, an' Mistress Glendie never got a squawk in ava, eksep when Sandy was swallowin' his spittal.
The fisher lookit gey dumfoondered like, an' never lut anither peek; but Sandy stack in like a larry-horse till the feenish, an' he cam' hame a' the road sayin', "Man, that's raley been a treat!" It was that, an' nae mistak', an' as the chairman said, it'll be a memorable concert to mony a ane.
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