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Ye never heard hoo he laid it into them, steekin' his nivs an' layin' aboot him wi' his airms. "Echt thoosand pound!" he roars again. "That's seven shillin's the heid man, woman, and bairn i' the toon o' Arbroath. What d'ye think o' that? But that's no' a'. There's the toon's midden, too; that's needin' a look intil."
"Oor Toon Cooncil's juist like this Ralph the Rover, gaen awa' scoorin' the sea for nae end for the sea's no' needin' scoorin' when he michta been at hame helpin' his wife to ca' the washin'-machine. It's usef'u' wark we want. Neen o' your Bailie Thingymabob's capers, wi' his donkey engines, eksettera. Echt thoosand pound for a noo kirkyaird! Did ye ever hear the like!
"But he has no' hit any one," insisted Tam; "it's luck that he has no', but it's the sort of luck that the flyin'-man has. To-morrow the luck may be all the other way, and he'll bring doon every one he aims at. Ma idea is that to-morrow we've got to get him, because if he makes good, in a month's time you won't be able to fly except at saxteen thoosand feet." A light broke in on Blackie.
That one cry swelled out for a moment, and then the roar of a thoosand furious voices. I was runnin'. Every one was runnin'. A bright red light shone out, and the river was a scarlet streak. I could see my companions now.
"It's Ramblin' Peter they've gotten haud o', as sure as I'm a leevin' man," said the shepherd with a low chuckle; "I'd ken him amang a thoosand by the way he rins." "Shall we not rescue him?" exclaimed Wallace, starting up. "Wheesht! keep still, man. Nae fear o' Peter. He'll lead them in amang the bogs o' some peat-moss or ither, gie them the slip there, an' leave them to find their way oot."
There was nawthing in sicht, nawthing to mar the glories of the morn. 'Can A' be mistaken? asks Tam. 'Noo! A thoosand times noo! an' wi' these fatefu' wairds, he began his peerilous climb. Maircifu' Heavens! What's yon? 'Tis the mad Muller! Sweeft as the eagle fa'ing upon his prey, fa's MacMuller, a licht o' joy in his een, his bullets twangin' like hairp-strings.
"Well," said Sir Walter Scott, speaking with a pronounced accent, "ye ken the auld proverb, sirs, 'Ower mony cooks, or as the Border minstrel sang 'Black Johnstone wi' his troopers ten Might mak' the heart turn cauld, But Johnstone when he's a' alane Is waur ten thoosand fauld. The Johnstones were one of the Redesdale families, second cousins of the Armstrongs, and connected by marriage to "
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