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Updated: June 14, 2025
These malefactors suffered on the 20th of May, 1728; Rawlins being twenty-two, Ashley, twenty-six; Rouden, twenty-four; Benson, twenty-four; Gale, seventeen; Crowder, twenty-two; Toon, twenty-five; Hornby, twenty-one; Sefton, twenty-six; and Nichols, forty years of age. See page 463. The Lives of RICHARD HUGHS and BRYAN MACGUIRE, Highwaymen and Footpads
They drank ceremoniously, and then seated themselves at the table. As they did, two more men entered the room. They were introduced as Alexander Barrett, the gunsmith and Stanley Markovitch, the distiller. The Toon Leader began by asking, "You come, then, from the west?" "Are you from Utah?" the gunsmith interrupted, suspiciously. "Why, no, we're from Arizona.
The fowks say as Gowan 'll likely have ane o' they motors, like the Squire's at the toon, so as he can drive aboot the countryside and see a' the changes that's come sin' he left." The world was "turning golden," indeed! My cogitations as I made my way home were touched by the sheen.
Obleeged to me for haein' a wheen common sense a thing 'at I was born wi'! Toots! Dinna haiver." "Weel, mem, what wad ye hae me du? I canna sen' my auld daddie roon the toon wi' his pipes, to procleem 'at I'm no the man. I 'm thinkin' I 'll hae to lea' the place." "Wad ye sen' yer daddy roun' wi' the pipes to say 'at ye was the man? Ye micht as weel du the tane as the tither.
'Saw ye ever sic a sicht in oor toon afore! said Dooble Sanny, as people generally called him, his name being Alexander Alexander, pronounced, by those who chose to speak of him with the ordinary respect due from one mortal to another, Sandy Elshender. Double Sandy was a soutar, or shoemaker, remarkable for his love of sweet sounds and whisky.
McTrump bustled in and out in a breezy eagerness to make her comfortable. "Ye're a stranger in our toon," she said, "and sae I was once mysel, an' I ken how ye feel." "Oh, Mr. McTrump," said Edith, with peony-like face, "Hannibal is the only one who calls me that, and he doesn't know any better." "Why suld he know ony better?" responded Malcom quickly.
As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, ‘Wha are ye, man? are ye o’ the Auld Toon?’ I made no answer. ‘Ha! ye are o’ the New Toon; De’il tak ye, we’ll moorder ye’; and the next moment a huge stone sung past my head. ‘Let me be, ye fule bodies,’ said I, ‘I’m no of either of ye, I live yonder aboon in the Castle.’ ‘Ah! ye live in the Castle; then ye’re an auld tooner; come gie us your help, man, and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair eneugh.
Finding himself at length at Mr Graham's door, he wondered how he had got there. It was Saturday afternoon, and the master was in the churchyard. Startled by Malcolm's look, he gazed at him in grave silent enquiry. "Hae ye h'ard the ill news, sir?" said the youth. "No; I'm sorry to hear there is any." "They tell me Mistress Stewart's rinnin' aboot the toon claimin' me!" "Claiming you!
Then, in the same grave and subdued tone in which he had spoken all along, he said, "We are sorry to bring siccan a tale into your toon," and slowly moved off to rejoin his comrades, who had waited for him at no great distance. They then passed through the Old Town, and in five minutes the calamity was known to the whole place.
"A body wad think," said my mother one cold night five or six years ago, when I lay on the sofa, trying to send my weariness off in smoke, "A body wad think there had been nae cherritable wark dune in the toon ava, till they theossiphies set aboot it.
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