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Updated: July 5, 2025
"I misdoot yo'll iver see your dog agin, mister," Sam'l repeated, as if he was supplying the key to the mystery. "Noo, Sam'l, if yo' know owt tell it," ordered his master. Sam'l grunted sulkily. "Wheer's oor Bob, then?" he asked. At that M'Adam turned on the Master. "'Tis that, nae doot. It's yer gray dog, James Moore, yer dog. I might ha' kent it," and he loosed off a volley of foul words.
O Meg, woman, I think o' ye i' the mornin' afore the Lord's Prayer, I sair misdoot! Guid forgie me! I find mysel' whiles wonderin' gin I'll see ye the day afore I can gang ower in my mind the graves that's to howk, or gin Birsie's oats are dune. O Meg, Meg, I'm that fell fond o' ye that I gruppit that thrawn speldron Birsie's hint leg juist i' the fervour o' thinkin' o' ye."
M'Intyre out in the wrong for saying what he did. The old man didn't say much more, only shook his head, saying 'Ah, ye're a grand laddie, and buirdly, and no that thrawn, either like ye, Dick, ye born deevil, looking at me. 'But I misdoot sair ye'll die wi' your boots on. There's a smack o' Johnnie Armstrong in the glint o' yer e'e. Ye'll be to dree yer weird, there's nae help for't.
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