My Man Sandy
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J. B. Salmond >> My Man Sandy
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Weel, the match got startit. They set Sandy at the end nearest the
dyke; an', faigs, he lookit gey weel, mind ye. The captain loonie
wirks at the heckle-machines, an' he'd gotten a len' o' the second
foreman's white canvas coat, an' gae't to Sandy. It was to keep his
shedda oot ahent the bailer's airm, Sandy said; but it didna appear to
mak' ony difference to his shedda. It was juist in the auld place, as
far as I cud see.
Very weel, than, the match began, as I was sayin', an' a'thing gaed
richt eneuch for a little. The Collie Park lads did fine for a while,
but some o' them didna get so lang strikin' the ba' as ithers, an' they
began to roar cheek.
"Noo, Batchy," said some o' them, as a gey mettled-lookin' loon got the
bat, "strik' oot. Lat's see ye knokin' the colour oot o' Snapper
Morrison's ballin'."
Sal, mind ye, an' Batchy wasna lang o' doin' that. He shut his een,
an' hit sweech at the ba', an' awa' it gaed sailin' ower the dyke.
"Well away," roared the loons roond aboot me. "That's a sixer. Play
up, Batchy!"
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. Efter a lang laberlethan, the bailer got
three shies at Batchy's wickets, because he tried to het what they ca'd
a sneak. But he missed ilky time, an' syne Batchy wallapit the ba' a'
ower the Common, an' floo frae end to end o' the wickets like's he
wasna wyse. It was gey slow wark for Sandy though, an' I think he had
gotten tired, for the laddies roond aboot me began to say, "There was
thirteen ba's i' that lest over; I think Sandy Bowden's dreamin'," an'
so on. I think mysel' Sandy had been doverin', for the ba' hut
Batchy's wicket, an' every ane o' the loons playin' gae a yowl at the
same meenit--"How's that?" Sandy near jamp ootin his white coat wi'
the start; an', takin' till his heels, he was a hunder yairds doon the
Common afore ane o' the laddies grippit him by the tails, an' speered
whaur he was fleein' till.
"I was gettin' hungrie," says Sandy. "I was gaen ower to the toll for
a biskit." That was a lee; for he tell'd me efter, he dreedit, when he
heard the roar, that it was ane o' Sandy Mertin's ki gane wild; an' he
took till his heels, thinkin' it was efter him.
"That bloomin' empire's a pure frost," I heard some o' the loons
sayin'. "He canna coont; an' noo he's genna stop the match 'cause he's
hungrie. Wha ever heard o' an empire gettin' hungrie?"
Sandy got back till his place, an' the match gaed on. "Over comin'
up," said the ither empire forby Sandy; an' the laddie that was ballin'
says, "Ay weel, than, I'm genna see an' get wid." He gae his arm an
awfu' sweel roond, an' instead o' sendin' the ba' to the wickets, it
gaed spung ower an' hut Sandy a yark i' the side o' the heid.
"There's wid," said the ither empire; "but it's no' a wicket for a'
that." Sandy was springin' aboot wi' his heid in his oxter, an' a' the
laddies roarin' and lauchin' like to kill themsel's.
I was ance genna gae doon an' tak' him awa' hame; but I thocht it micht
look raither queer, so I lut him aleen for a little. The captain
loonie began to ball, an' a gey wild-lookin' bailer he was. The Collie
Park's henmost man--he was a little berfit craturie wi' nicker-buckers
an' a straw hat--was in, an' the captain gae him an awfu' crack below
the knee wi' the ba'.
"How's that?" he yowled at Sandy.
"Man, I believe that's fell sair," says Sandy, rubbin' the swalled side
o' his heid.
A' the loons startit to the lauchin', an' the captain roars again, "Ay,
but how is't?"
"Ye can easy see how it is," says Sandy. "The ba' strack him a yark on
the kut."
There was mair lauchin', an' I saw Sandy was gettin' raised.
"Is't l--b--w., ye stewpid auld bloit?" said the impident little wisgan
o' a captain, stickin' himsel' up afore Sandy.
"I'll l--b--double you," says Sandy, "if ye gie me ony o' your chat, ye
half-cled horn-goloch 'at ye are"; and he took the sacket a kleip i'
the side o' the heid wi' his open luif that tummeled him ower the tap
o' the wickets like a puckle rags. In half a meenit a' the hunder
laddies were round Sandy, an' him layin' amon' them wi' ane o' their
ain wickets.
I'll swag the Gallyfloor C.C. got something frae their pattern lest
Setarday efternune that they'll no forget in a hurry. Some men on the
Common cam' doon an' shoo'd the loons awa' frae pappin' Sandy wi' duds,
an' we got hame withoot any farrer mishap; but a' forenicht I heard
Sandy wirrin' awa' till himsel', an' sayin' ilky noo an'
than--"Ill-gettit little deevils; an' me gae them an' orange box too!"
Nathan cam' in juist afore I shut the shop, an' tell'd Sandy that there
had been an' awfu' row on the Common. "Some o the lads i' the
Callyfloor," said Nathan, "were blamin'the captain for gien you cheek,
an' said the wallop i' the lug he got saired him richt. So he got on
his jeckit an' his buits, an' got a haud o' the best bat an' the ba',
an' then he roars a' his micht, 'The club's broken up.' You never saw
sic a row as there was. Willy Mollison's i' the club, an' he's gotten
three bails an' a wicket. That's better gin naething. I nailed twa o'
the bails till him out o' Tarn Dargie's pooch, when he was fechtin' wi'
the captain. Snapper Morrison didna get onything; but he ower the
Common dyke an' in the road; an' when I was comin' hame I saw him
leggin' in the Loan wi' the orange box on his heid. He had nabbit it
oot o' Tooties' Nook, whaur they keepit their bats an' wickets. It's a
gude thing they're broken up at onyrate. I'm in the Collie Park, an'
they're the only club that cud lick his lads."
"O, that's a' richt," says Sandy; an' awa' he gaed, as pleased as you
like. When I dandered doon the yaird to get a breath o' fresh air,
efter I shut the shop, here's him tumblin' catmas, an' stanin' on his
heid i' the middle o' the green, gien Nathan an' twa or three ither
loons coosies! Did you ever hear o' sic a man?
XII.
A DREADFUL DISASTER IN THE GARRET.
I'm shure I needna trauchle to haud in aboot the bawbees! That man o'
mine wud ramsh an' hamsh an' fling awa' mair than I cud save although I
was a millionaire. Nae farrer gane than lest nicht I heard some
ongaens up the stair. What's he up till noo? thinks I to mysel'. Ye
ken our garret? It's a anod bit roomie, an' we sleep up there i' the
simmer nichts, for the doonstair room gets that het an' seekrif, I
canna fa' ower ava sometimes. So I have the garret made rale snod an'
cosie. There's a fine fixed-in bed, an' I have the room chairs I got
when my Auntie Leeb de'ed, wi' a tidie or twa ower them, an' an
auld-fashioned roond tablie 'at I bocht at a rowp--ane o' thae anes
that cowps up an' sets back to the wa' when you're no' needn't. Auntie
Leeb left me her big lookin' gless too. Ye mind she had a shooster
shopie at the fit o' Collie Park, an' she had a big lookin' gless for
her customers seeing hoo their frocks fitted. Ay weel than, I set the
gless juist up again' the wa' at the end o' the garret, firnent the
fireplace an' it made the roomie real cantie an' cheerie lookin'.
When I heard the din Sandy was makin', I goes my wa's up the stair on
my tiptaes. It was juist upo' the stroke o' nine o'clock, an' I was
juist noo dune shuttin' the shop. The door was aff the snib; an', keep
me, when I lookit in, here's Sandy wi' an Oddfella's kilt an' a bushbie
on, an' his ilky-day's claes lyin' in a pozel on the table. I kent the
kilt whenever I saw't; it was the ane Dauvit Kenawee wears in the
Oddfellas' processions. Sandy was berfit, an', I'm shure, if ye'd seen
him! Haud your tongue! Ye never saw sic a picture. I suppose he'd
taen aff his buits no' to mak' a noise.
Ay weel, here he was wi' a bawbee can'le stuck up again' the boddom o'
the lookin'-gless, an' him maleengerin' aboot i' the flure afore't, wi'
the shaft o' the heather bissam in his hand, whiskin't roond his lugs,
progin' aboot wi't, an' lowpin' here an' there like a hen on a het
girdle. 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.
"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. "Come on, Mick Duff; every deevil
o' ye! Change your slaverie," he says akinda heich oot, an' then he
lut yark at the seek again an' missed, an' made a muckle hole i' the
plester.
He stoppit an' harkin't for fear I'd heard the stishie he was makin'.
I never lut dab, but keepit juist as quiet's pussy.
"Auch, she's i' the shop," he says heich oot; an' then he floo back an'
forrit, fencin' an' jookin', an glowerin' at himsel' i' the
lookin'-gless; an' girnin' his teeth like a whitterit. I raley thocht
the man had gane sketch. He made a sweech wi' the bissam shaft 'at
garred the licht o' the can'le waggle frae side to side. Syne he
straughtened himsel' up afore the gless, an', touchin' the ruif wi the
point o' his stick, he says, "Viktory, viktory! Bannockburn is wun.
Hooreh! Hooreh!"
Juist at this meenit there was a rare like's fifty thunderbolts had
burst in Kowper Collie's auld-iron yaird. You never heard sic a soond.
It was like the crack o' a hunder cannon; an' in an instant a' was
dark, an' there was a reeshil o' broken bottles that garred me think
there had been an earthquake i' the back shop. Doon the stair I floo;
but, afore I was half-roads doon, Sandy jamp clean on my back--kilt,
bushbie, an' a'thegither. Doon I gaed like a rickel o' auld beans, an'
Sandy ower the tap o' me, heels-ower-gowrie. When I cam' to mysel',
here's Sandy lyin' streekit oot on his face i' the middle o' a box o'
Hielant eggs that I'd juist noo opened. The strap o' the bushbie was
roond his thrapple, an' was juist aboot stranglin' him, when I cut it
wi' the ham knife. Then he akinda half-turned roond, an' says he, "O
Bawbie! I'm deid. There's a bomshall gane throo my backbeen."
"Rise up," says I, "there's mair than you deid. There's twal' or
fifteen dizzen o' gude eggs bruist to bits. Whatever 'ill I do?" He
raise up; an' if ye'd only seen the sicht! It's as fac's ocht, it was
eneuch to fleg the French. Never will I forget it while I draw breath.
He lookit like some berfit tinkler wife that had been too, an' had
t'a'in, ower the heid, intil a barrel o' yellow oker; an' stickin' on
his weyst there was ane o' my winda tickets--"Just in To-Day."
"O, Bawbie!" he wheenged, "gae up the stair an' see if the ruif's aye
on. I think somebody's been hoddin' dianamite in oor garret."
"When I gaed up the stair wi' a licht, what did I see but my Auntie
Leeb's braw lookin'-gless a' to flinders i' the flure? The licht o'
the can'le had burned up against it, an' riven't a' to pieces. When I
turned roond, here's Sandy stappin' ooten his kilt, an' gaen awa' to
pet on his troosers.
"Alick Bowden," says I--an' my very hert was greit--"Alick Bowden"--I
aye ca' him Alick when I'm angry--"this maun be the end o't. I canna
thole nae mair."'
"For ony sake, Bawbie," he brook in, "dinna say naething the nicht, or
I'll pushon or droon mysel'. I wiss I had been smored amo' thae eggs";
an' doon the stair he gaed, wi' his breeks in his oxter.
I juist had to g'wa' to my bed an' lat a'thing aleen, an' I ac'ually
grat mysel' ower asleep. I didna ken o' Sandy comin' till his bed ava;
an' when I raise i' the mornin' a' thing was cleared awa', an' the
garret an' backshop a' sweepit an' in order, an' Sandy was busy i' the
yaird hackin' sticks, an' whistlin' "Hey, Jockie Mickdonal'," juist's
as gin naethin' had happened. He's been stickin' in like a hatter ever
sin' syne, an' has a'thing as neat's ninepence; so I canna say a single
wird. But is't no raley something terriple?
XIII.
SANDY AND BAWBIE'S SPRING HOLIDAY.
Spring holiday! Wheesht! I'll no' forget it in a hurry, I can tell
you. But I never saw't different. Holidays are juist a perfeck
scunner, as far as I've haen to do wi' them; an' as for the rest--I'm
shure I'm aye tireder efter a holiday than at the tailend o' a hard
day's wark. I'm juist a' sair the day wi' sittin' i' the train; an'
yesterday nicht I cud hardly move oot o' the bit, I was that dune.
But I maun tell you the story frae the beginnin'. You've mibby heard
me speak aboot Meg Mortimer's mither that used to bide at The Drum.
Meg's in a big wey o' doin' noo in Edinboro; but I've seen the day, I'm
thinkin'! Weel div I mind when her mither flitted ower frae Powsoddie.
She cam' along to oor hoose to seek the len' o' twa kists, juist to gie
her flittin' some appearance on the cairts. Ay did she, noo-na-na!
What think ye o' that? They were as puir's I kenna what, an' mony a
puckle meal did they get oot o' oor girnil, for Dauvid Mortimer was a
nice man, altho' he was terriple hudden doon wi' the reums.
Weel, Meg gaed awa' to service, an' fell in wi' a weeda man wi' three
o' a faimly. I can ashure you there's nae tume kists in her hoose noo.
She has a big wey o' doin'. Her man's a kind o' heid pillydakus amon'
a lot o' naveys, makin' railroads, and main drains, an' so on. He's
made a heap o' bawbees. Mester Blair's his name. They bide in a big
hoose doon about the Meadows in Edinboro, an' they have a big servant,
and twa dogs; forby a bit lassockie to look efter the bairns.
Meg was throo seein' her fowk no' that lang syne, an' she wud hae me to
promise to come throo wi' Sandy an' see them. She wudna hae a na-say.
She was aye an awfu' tague for tonguein', Meg. I mind when she was but
ten 'ear auld, me, that was saxteen or seventeen 'ear aulder, cudna
haud the can'le till her. She was a gabbin' little taed. Weel, rizzen
be't or neen, she fair dang me into sayin' I wud come wi' Sandy an' see
her at the spring holiday; an' so we juist had to go.
Sandy gaed on juist like a clockin' hen a' Sabbath efternune an' nicht.
He had the upstairs bed lippin' fu' o' luggitch that he was thinkin' o'
takin' wi' him. A body wudda thocht he was settiu' aff for a crooze
roond the North Pole, instead o' on a veesit to Edinboro. He was
rubbin' up his buits, an' syne brethin' on them, an' rubbin' them up
again, an' settin' himsel' back an' lookin' at himsel' in them. He's a
prood bit stockie, Sandy, mind ye, when there's naebody lookin'. He
had a' his goshore suit hung oot on the backs o' chairs a' roond the
hoose. It lookit like's there was genna be a sale or a raffle or
something.
He gaed doon to supper Donal' i' the forenicht, an' I took a dander
awa' doon ahent him, juist to get a moof'u' o' caller air. When I
landit at the stable door I heard Sandy speakin' to somebody. I took a
bit peek in at the winda, an' here's Sandy merchin' aboot wi' the horse
cover tied up in a bundle in ae hand, an' a stick i' the ither. He
stoppit in the tume staw an' laid doon his bundle rale smert like; syne
he lookit ower the buird to Donal', an' says, in an Englishy kind o' a
voice, "Twa return tickets third-class an' back to Edinboro!" I saw
syne what he was at! He was practeesin' seekin' the tickets at the
station. Ow, ay; Sandy's like a' ither body! He's a gey breezie
carlie when he's awa' frae hame, an' his dickie on!
Sandy had his uswal argey-bargeyin' in the train, an' I thocht ae man
an' him, that cam' in at Carnoustie, wi' his wife, an' a pair o'
nickerbucker breeks on, was genna t'a' to the fechtin' a'thegither.
An' faigs, Sandy snoddit him geylies afore we got to Dundee.
There was a lot o' men' an' loons staiverin' aboot Carnoustie playin'
at the gowf; an' Sandy says--"Look at thae jumpin'-jecks o' craturs wi'
their reed jeckets on, like as mony organ-grinders' monkeys, rinnin'
aboot wi' their bits o' sticks, wallopin' awa' at Indeen-rubber ba's.
Puir craturs!"
Man, the chappie wi' the nickerbuckers got up in an awfu' pavey, an'
misca'ed Sandy for a' the vagues--you never heard the like!
"Look ye hear, my bit birkie," says Sandy, gien a gey wild-like wink
wi' his richt e'e, "you speak when ye're spoken till! I dinna bather
mysel' wi' paper-mashie peeriewinkles like the likes o' you; but if you
gi'e me ony o' your sma' chat, man, I'll tak' an' thrapple you wi' that
fowerpence-happeny-the-dizzen paper collar ye've roond the wizand o'
ye."
"Wud ye?" said the Carnoustie birkie, jumpin' till his feet.
The train gae a shoag juist at that meenit, an' he gaed doit ower on
the tap o' Sandy, and brocht a tin box doish doon on his heid. He got
a gey tnap, I can tell you. Sandy keepit his temper something
winderfu', an' he juist quietly set doon Nickerbucker Tammie on the
seat an' says, "Ay, loonie; juist you sit still there till your mither
gie's your nose a dicht, an' ties your gartins; an' you'll get a piece
an' jeely on't when the trainie stops."
You never heard sic lauchin' as there was; an' Sandy's frien' lookit as
gin he'd haen a dram, an' gotten an awfu' dose o' cauld. He didna say
"guid-mornin'" when he gaed oot at the Toy Brig Station.
Sandy had twa-three mair pliskies atween Dundee an' Edinboro, but I
hinna time to tell you o' them. Peety the man that starts to write
Sandy's beebliographie. If he tells the hale truth, eksettera, he'll
hae a gey job. The faimly Bible 'ill be like a heym-book aside the
volum. They'll need to get up early i' the mornin' that reads Sandy's
life, I tell you. The man that writes it 'ill never win to his bed ava.
Weel-a-weel, we landit at Edinboro, an Meg was waitin's, an' as mony
bairns wi' her as wudda startit a raggit schule--although they were a'
braw an' snod, I ashure ye.
"Keep me, Meg," said Sandy, efter he'd shaken hands wi' her, "is thae
a' your litlans? Dod, sic a cleckin!"
The ass that he is! I saw Meg chowl her chafts gey angry like, an' I
took Sandy a doish i' the back wi' my umberell. "Say Mistress Blair,
ye ill-mennered whaup atyar," says I in his lug; an' he gleyed roond at
me, an' says, wi' anither o' his vegabon'-like winks, "Ay; that's
Wattie Scott's monniment, Bawbie. A great man, Wattie! It was him 'at
wret Bailie Nickil Jarvie an' the Reed Gauntlet an' so on. He bade a
fortnicht wi' Luckie Walker at Auchmithie. Bandy Wobster's grandfather
sell'd him a dog when he was there. He was a fine man, Wattie."
Meg an' the bairns an' me gaed into the cab, an Sandy, he wud be up on
the dickey aside the driver. As I cudda tell'd afore he gaed up, he
wasna there five meenits when he was nearhand at the fechtin' wi' the
man aboot the wey he drave his horse. I was gled when we landit at
Meg's hoose, for I was expectin' ilky meenit to see the cabby--he was
an ill-faur'd, rossen-faced lookin' tyke--fling Sandy heels-ower-heid
into the cab amon' the bairns--he was black-gairdin' the man's horse
for an auld, hunger'd reeshil, an' praisin' up Donal' that terriple!
"Man, you've juist to lay the reinds on's back, an' he's awa' like the
wind," I heard him sayin'. "There's naething a' roond aboot can touch
him. He can trot up the High Road wi' sasteen hunderwecht. He's a
reg'lar topper! You should send that hunger'd-lookin' radger o' yours
to Glesterlaw"; an' so on he gaed, an' the man girnin' an' skoolin' at
him like a teegar.
When we cam' aff at the Meadows, Sandy gaed roond aboot the beast,
chucklin' awa' till himsel' juist like watter dreepin' intil a tume
cistern; but he keepit oot o' the reach o' the cabby's kornals. I
expeckit to see him get roond the linders wi' them for his impidence.
"If you cam' to Arbroath wi' the like o' that, the Croolty to Animals
wud grip you afore you was weel through the toll," he says to the man.
"You'll better g'wa' hame wi't as lang's it's het. If you lat that
sharger cule, it'll stiffen up, an' you'll never get it oot o' the bit,
till you bring a cairt for't."
The cabby got his bawbees frae Meg, an' drave awa', gien Sandy a glower
like a puttin' bull; but Sandy juist gae a bit lauch, an' cried,
"Ta-ta!"
We got into the house. Eh, sic a place for stech! Haud your tongue!
Really yon fair sneckit a'thing. Sandy could hardly get his hat aff
for glowerin' aboot him; an' when he did get it aff, he handit it to
ane o' the loons; an', afore you cudda sen Jeck Robison, they were oot
at the back door scorin' goals wi't throo' atween the claes-poles on
the green. Meg was at the hurdies o' them wi' a switch gey quick, an'
sune had Sandy's lum hingin' aside his greatcoat in the lobby.
We wasna lang set doon when in cam' Meg's man. A brisk-lookin' fellah
he is, I can tell you. He shook hands wi's as hearty's though we'd
come to gie him a job; an' in five meenits, tooch, you wudda thocht
Sandy an' him had never been sindered sin' they got on their first
daidles. I'll swag, Meg's fa'in on hex feet, an' nae mistak'!
I'm shure I'm no complainin', but Sandy Bowden's been an unsatisfaktory
man in mony weys; but, as the Bible says, we've a' a dwang o' some
kind, an' if I hadna gotten Sandy, weel, I michta haen a drucken son,
or a licht-heided dauchter. Wha can tell? We've a' a hankie mair than
we deserve, nae doot. I ken I have onywey; but that's nether here nor
there.
We were sittin' enjoyin' a crack, an' lookin' oot at the windas,
watchin' the bairns in their coaches, an' the birds fleein' aboot as
happy as crickets, huntin' for wirms amon' the young girss.
"The Meadows look very pretty i' the noo," said Mester Blair. "The
very birds enjoy the fresh green grass."
"They do that," put in Sandy. "It's a treat to see them, puir things.
They are fond o' a bittie o' onything green. I tak' a bit dander oot
the bunkers on a Sabbath mornin' whiles for a pucklie chuckin-wirth to
Dickie, an' you wud really think the cratur kent. He gleys doon when I
come in, as much as to say, 'C'way wi't, Sandy; I ken fine you have't
in your pooch!'"
"Bawbie here winna believe me," continued Sandy, gien Mester Blair a
wink, "but I've tell'd her twa-three times that when I've gane doon the
yaird i' the winter-time wi' my auld greatcoat--it's gettin' very green
noo, but it was a bit guid stuff aince in its day--the birds 'ill come
fleein' doon an' sit on the palin' aside me, an' wheetle-wheetle awa'
for a whilie. It's queer; but that's the effek the green appears to
hae on them."
Mester Blair leuch till I thocht he wudda wranged himsel'. A richt
hearty laucher he is. The lauch gaed a' ower him, an' you could hardly
sen futher it was comin' oot o' his moo or his baits, there was that
muckle o't.
Syne Sandy an' him got on to the crack aboot the tattie trade, an' you
wudda thocht Sandy was genna tak' him in for a pairtner, he had that
muckle to tell him.
"An' do you do much wi' the Americans?" said Mester Blair.
"I do a' their trade," said Sandy. "There's only three o' them buys
tatties in Arbroath noo. The ither twa's gey queer that wey; they get
a'thing preserved in tins, frae aboot London they tell me."
Mester Blair didna appear to understand Sandy, an' he speered, "Do you
get cash again' Billy Lowden; or hoo d'ye get peyment?"
"If the bawbees is no' at the back o' the cairt, up goes the bawk, an'
Donal' ca's awa," says Sandy. "Na, na, neen o' your Billy Lowden tick
for me. I believe in the ready clink."
"Oh, I see," said Mester Blair. "You get cash at the ship's side.
That is the safe plan."
"As you say," said Sandy, "that's exakly Bandy Wobster's wey o'
pettin't. I believe in the bawbees afore the tatties leave the back
door o' the cairt. Short accounts mak' lang freends."
"Do you do onything wi' the Continent ava?" said Meg's man.
"I travel a' ower the toon," said Sandy, "frae Tootles Nook to
Culloden, an' frae the Skemels to Cairnie Toll. It disna maitter a
doakan to me wha I sell till. Seven pund to the half-steen, an' cash
doon--thae's my principles; the same price, and the game turn o' the
bawk, to gentle and simple. When the champions are gude I can manish
twa load i' the day fine, an' if the disease keeps oot amon' them, they
pey no that ill."
Meg's man gey a kind o' a whistle in laich, an' I saw fine syne whaur
he had tint himsel'. Meg had tell'd him Sandy was a tattie merchant,
an' he'd been thinkin' Sandy had a big wey o' doin', an' sell'd tatties
in shiploads an' so on. 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.
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