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Updated: June 28, 2025
He crossed his legs ower ane anither, an' put ane o' his hands in ablo the tails o' his coat; an', gettin' akinda aff his balance, he gaed spung up again' Bandy Wobster. There was a crunch an' a splash, an' there was the chairman's bowd legs stickin' up oot o' the boiler, an' his face lookin' throo atween his taes, wi' a pair o' een like a wild cat.
He said he wud gie me a letherin' if I was a clash-pie; but I was juist genna tell you, but I'll no' do't noo," an' oot at the door he gaed. I cried on him to come back, but, yea wud! I saw nae mair o' him for half an 'oor, when in he comes to the back shop wi' a bundle o' claes an' flang them i' the flure. "There's Sandy's claes," says he. "I got them frae Bandy Wobster at the tap o' the street.
"There's no' nae lions' dens nooadays, ye see," say Sandy, to feenish up wi'. "What is't they do wi' creeminals or notorious fowk noo?" "Pet them on for Toon Cooncillers," said ane o' the biggest o' Dauvid's laddies; an' Bandy Wobster lut oot a great ballach o' a lauch, an' roared at the pitch o' his voice "Confoond it! Feech! I've swallowed a bit tobacco!"
There was Mysy Cruickshanks there, an' Kitty Wobster 'at was nae friends to the corpse to speak o', but Marget passed by me, me 'at is her ain flesh an' blood, though it mayna be for the like o' me to say it. It's gospel truth, Jess, I tell ye, when I say 'at, for all I ken officially, as ye micht say, Pete Lownie may be weel and hearty this day.
That's aye the way wi' Sandy, I can tell you. I aye expect that something will happen wi' him that I'm no' expectin'; so I find it best juist to lat him aleen. Next mornin' he gaed awa' gey early to get yokit, an' he took Bandy Wobster wi' him to gi'e him a hand.
"This, as you'll easily recognise, is Bailie Thingymabob." The laddies gae the Bailie a roond o' applause, an' Bandy Wobster says, "Man, but he's awfu' indistink, Sandy. Ye can hardly mak' him oot." "That's no' to be windered at," says Sandy. "I never fell in wi' onybody that cud mak' him oot.
"Sandy's fair gyte aboot fitba' an' harryin' an' sic like ploys. Weel-a-weel, Pottie Lawson an' twa-three mair o' them got Sandy to mak' a wadger o' five bob that he wud rin three miles in twenty-five meenits oot the Sands, an' they tell me Sandy's been oot twa-three times trainin' himsel'. To mak' a lang story short Bandy Wobster gae me the particulars the race cam' aff the nicht.
I'll lat Bandy Wobster awa' wi't, 'cause he's no' near wyse, an' he's an' objeck a'ready." Juist at this meenit Mistress Kenawee cries up the stair, "Are you there, Bawbie?" an' I had to rin doon. I tell'd them Sandy was hame a' richt. Dauvid wantit to see him. But, na na! I keepit what I kent o' Sandy's story to mysel'; an', puir cratur, I was raley sorry for him.
He's auld wecht; mind I tell you." That's exactly my ain opinion, d'ye ken; an' it akinda astonished me to hear Stumpie speakin' sense for ance in's life. He's uswally juist a haverin' doit. But that's no' what I was genna tell you aboot. Sandy and Bandy Wobster have had a terriple fortnicht's colligin' thegither.
Dauvid Kenawee an' Bandy Wobster an' him were stravagin' roond aboot the place wi' a fitrool an' a bawbee can'le, an' I saw immidintly that there was something i' the wind. I was juist clearin' my throat to lat them ken there was to be nae mair o' their conspiracies in my washin'-hoose, when Dauvid slippit in his wird afore me. "Come awa, Bawbie," he saya, says he, in his uswal quiet wey.
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