Rough Scan
III
SANDY AND THE DINNER BELL.
CRACK
aboot holidays! I tell you,
I’d raither do a day’s washin’ an’ cleaning’, ay, an’ do the ironin’
an’ manglin’ efter that, than face anither holiday like what Sandy an’
me had this week. Holiday! It’s
a winder there wasna a special excursion comin’ hame wi’ Sandy’s bur’al.
If that man’s no’ killed afore lang, he’ll be gettin’ in amon’
thae anarkist billies or something. I tell you he’s fit eneuch for onything.
We
took the cheap trip to Edinboro, juist to hae a bit look round the
metrolopis,
as Sandy ca’d it to the fowk i’ the train.
He garred me start twa-three times sayin’t; I thocht he’d swallowed
his pipe-shank, he gae sic a habble.
We
wasna weel startit afore he begude wi’ his nonsense. There was a young bit kimmerie an’ a bairnie i’ the carriage, an’
the craturie grat like onything. “I
winder what I’ll do wi’ this bairn?” aid the lassie; an’ Sandy, in the
middle o’ argeyin’ wi’ anither ass o’ a man that the Arbroath cricketers
cud lick the best club i’ the country, says, rale impident like to the
lassie, “Shuve’t in ablo the seat.”
“You
hertless vegabon,” says I; “think shame o’ yoursel! Gie me the bairnie,” says I; an’ I got the craturie cowshined an’
quieted.
There
was nae mair nonsense till we cam till a station in Fife wi’ an’ awfu’-like
name. I canna mind what it was,
an’ never will, I suppose. The
stationmester had an awfu’ reed nose—most terriple.
“Is
the strawberries a gude crap roond aboot here?” said Sandy till him,
out at the winda; an’ you never heard what lauchin’ as there was on
the platform. The stationmester’s face got as reed’s his
nose, an’ he ca’d Sandy for a’ the impident whaups that ever
travelled.
Sal,
Sandy stack up till him, though; an’ when the train moved awa’ the fowk
hurrehed like’s it had been a royal marriage.
The stationmester didna hurreh ony.
Gaen
ower the Forth Brig I thocht twa-three times Sandy wud be oot at the
window heid-lang. I was juist
in a fivver wi’ him an’ his ongaens.
Hooever, we landit a’ richt in Edinboro.
An’ what a day! I thocht
when we got to a temperance hotel at nicht that I had a chance o’ an
‘oor’s peace. But haud your tongue! Weesht! I’ll
juist gie you the thick o’ the story clean aff luif.
It
was a rale comfortable-lookin’ hoose, and we got a nice clean-lookin’
bedroom, an’ efter a’thing was arranged, Sandy an’ me gaed awa’ doon
as far as Holyrood, whaur Queen Mary got ane o’ her fiddlers killed,
an’ whaur John Knox redd her up for carryin’ on like a pagan linkie
instead o’ the Queen o’ Scotland. Weel, it was gey late when we get back to oor
hotel, an’ we juist had a bit snack o’ supper, an’ up the stair we
gaed.
We were three stairs up. We had a seat an’ a crack an’ a look oot at
the winda, for we saw a lang wey ower the toun, an’ it was bonnie to
watch the lichts twinklin’ an’ to hear the soonds.
Twal
o’clock chappit, an’ we thocht it was time we were beddit. I was anower, an’ Sandy was juist a’ ready,
when he cudna fa’ in wi’ his nichtkep.
It was in a handbag o’ Sandy’s, and he had left it doon in the
lobby. Sandy canna sleep without
his nichtkep—no’ him!
“What
am I genna do ?“ says Sandy. He
was in his lang white nichtgoon, and he gaed to the room door an’ opened
it. He lookit oot, but a’thing was as quiet’s death.
“I’ll
rin doon for’t,” says he; “a’body’s beddit.
I’ll juist rin doon, an’ I’ll bring up my umberell an’ my hat
at the same time, for fear they micht be liftit.
You never can tell.”
Awa’
doon the stairs he gaed in his lang nichtgoon, for a’ the earth juist
like some corp escapit frae the kirkyaird.
He wasna a meenit oot when I dreedit something wad happen, an’
I juist sat up tremblin’ in the bed.
Sandy
got doon to the lobby a’ richt; an’ a’thing was dark, an’ as still’s
the grave. He scrammilt aboot
till he got the bag; syne he fand for his lum hat, an’ put it on his
heid. He got his umberell in his oxter, an’ the bag
in his hand, an’ then he fand roond juist see if there was naething
else he had forgotten.
By
ill-fortune he cam’ on the handle a’ the denner bell, an’ liftin’t,
it ga’e a creesh an’ a clang that knokit a’ the sense oot o’ Sandy’s
heid, and wauken’d half the fowk i’ the hoose.
Sandy took till his heels up the stair; an’ a gey like picture
he was, wi’ his lang, white sark-tails fleein’ i’ the air, a lum hat
on his heid, an umberell in his oxter, the bag in ae hand, an’ the denner
bell i’ the ither, bangin’ an’ clangin’ at ilky jump.
It wudda frichten’d the very deevil himsel’.
The stupid auld fule had gotten that doited that he cam’ fleein’
awa’ wi’ the bell in his hand.
There
was a cry o’ fire, and a scream o’ murder, an’ in half a meenit the
hotel was as busy as gin it had been broad daylicht.
Sandy forgot hoo mony stairs he had to clim’, and he gaed bang
in on an auld sea captain an’ his wife, in the room below oors. It fair paralised baith o’ them, when they
saw Sandy comin’ burst in on them wi’ his black tile, his white goon,
his umberell an’ bag, an’ the denner bell.
“P’leece,
p’leece,” roared the captain an’ his wife—an’ Sandy oot at the door. Awa’ alang a passage he gaed, fleein’ like
a huntit tod. I heard him as
gin he’d been doon in the very bowels o’ the earth cryin’ “Bawbie,
Bawbie! Oh, whaur are ye, Bawbie?”
“Wha
i’ the earth is he, or what’s ado wi’ him?”
I heard somebody speer.
“Gude
kens,” said anither voice. “It’s
shurely some milkman wi’ the bloo deevils.”
“Milkman! What wud a milkman do wi’ an umberell, a
portmanty,
an’ a lum hat ?“
Juist
at that meenit Sandy cam’ fleein’ alang the passage again, an’ by this
time a’ the fowk in the hotel were oot on the stairs.
If you had only seen the scrammel.
They scoored doon the stairs, into pantries, in below tables;
the room doors were bangin’ like thunder, an’ Sandy’s bell was ringin’
like’s Gabriel had lost his trumpet.
You never heard sic a din. I
saw him comin’ leggin’ up the stair.
The stairheid was fu’ o’ fowk, a’ oot in their nichtgoons to
see what was ado; but, I can ashure you, when they saw Sandy comin’
fleein’ up, they shune disappeared. Six policemen cudna scattered them so quick. He came spankin’ into my room, an’ drappit
intil a chair, fair oot o’ pech.
“Oh,
Bawbie, Bawbie !“ he cried, “gie’s a drink.
Tak’ that umberell,” he says, haudin’ oot the bell to me. “I’ve been fleein’ a’ roond Edinboro wi’ naething
on but my nicht-goon, an’ my lum, an a’ the coal cairters i’ the kingdom
ringin’ their bells at my tails. Sic
a wey o’ doin’! O dear me!
I wiss I was hame again! O dear me!”
“That’s
no an umberell, you doited fule,” says I.
“That’s the denner bell you’ve been fleein’ aboot wi’ i’ your
hand.”
Sandy
lookit at the bell; an’ you never saw sic a face as he put on. He lut it drap on the flure wi’ a clash like
a clap o’ thunder, an’ I heard a crood o’ fowk scurryin’ awa’ frae oor
bedroom door.
I
tell’d the landlord hoo the thing happened, an’ next mornin’ at brakfast
time you never heard sic lauchin’.
A’ the chaps were clappin’ Sandy on the shuder; an’ ane o’ them
says — ”Ay, man; it’s no mony fowk that tak’s their lum hat an’ their
umberell to their bed wi’ them.”
But
the auld skipper was the king amon’ them a’.
Hoo he raggit Sandy aboot bein’ a somnambulashinist or something.
“When
you want to steal a denner bell,” he said to Sandy, “carry’t by the
tongue, man. It’s safer that
wey. Bells an’ weemin are awfu’ beggars when their
tongues get lowse.”
The
captain was rale taen wi’ Sandy, an’, mind you, he hired a cab an’ drave
Sandy an’ me a’ roond the toon. Re
said he was bidin’ in Carnoustie, and he wadna hae a nasay but we wud
come an’ hae a cup o’ tea wi’ him.
“An’ if you’ll bide a’ nicht,” he said, “we’ll be awfu’ pleased.
An’ I’ll chain up the denner bell i’ the dog’s cooch juist for
that nicht.”
Ay,
weel! it’s fine lauchin’ noo when it’s a’ ower. But if you’d been in my place, you wudna lauchen muckle, I’se warrant.