Rough Scan
 






 
       
        XV
         
        SANDY MAKES A SPEECH.
         
        THERE’S 
          been great gaitherin’s in oor washin’-hoose this while back— “Nochties-an’-Broziana,” 
          Bandy Wobster ca’d the meetin’s to Sandy.  The ither Wedensday i’ the forenicht—the shop 
          was shut i’ the efternune, of coorse; I’m a great believer i’ the half-holiday, 
          you see.  I think it’s a capital 
          idea.  It gi’es a body a kind 
          o’ a breath or twa i’ the middle o’ the week, an’ it pits naebody aboot.  The fowk juist come for their things afore 
          you shut.  It disna mak’ a hair 
          o’ difference.  If you didna 
          open ava, they wud juist come the nicht afore.
        Weel, 
          but, as I was sayin’, the ither Wedensday nicht I flang my shallie ower 
          my heid, an’ took a stap oot at the back door i’ the gloamin’.  It was a fine nicht, an’ I sat doon on the 
          simmer-seat at the gavel o’ the washin’-hoose, an’ heard the argey-bargeyin’ 
          gaen on inside.  I stuid up an’ 
          lookit in at the bolie winda, juist abune whaur the skeels sit, an’ 
          here was Sandy an’ his cronies a’ busy crackin’ an’ smokin, an enjoyin’ 
          themselves i‘ the middle o’ a great steer o’ reek an’ noise.
        Juist 
          as I lookit in, Bandy Wobster said something to Dauvid Kenawee, an’ 
          Dauvid raise, an’ takin’ his pipe oot o’ his moo, says, “Order! I pirpose 
          Mester Wobster to the chair.”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” said a’ the rest; an’ wi’ that Bandy got up on the
        boiler-heid 
          on his belly, an’ turnin roond, sat wi’ the legs o’ him hingin’ ower 
          the front o’ the boiler, juist like a laddie sittin’ on the dyke at 
          the Common.  Watty Finlay, the weaver, shuved anower a tume 
          butter kit for Bandy to set his feet on, an’ then a’body sat quiet, 
          juist like’s something was genna happen.
        Bandy 
          took a bit tarry string, or tabaka or something, ooten his breeks pooch, 
          an’, nippin’ aff a quarter o a yaird o’t, he into his moo wi’t.  Syne he swallowed a spittal, an’ said— ”Freends 
          an’ fella ratepeyers.”  Bandy 
          never pey’d rates in’s life.  He 
          bides in a twa-pound garret i’ the Wyndies, an’ hardly ever peys rent, 
          lat aleen rates.  “Freends an’ 
          fella ratepeyers,” says he.
        Bandy 
          was stan’in’ up on the boddom o’ the butter kit gin this time, an’ a’ 
          the billies were harkenin’ like onything.
        “Freends 
          an’ fella ratepeyers,” says Bandy again.  
        “See gin that door’s on the sneck, Sandy, an’ dinna lat the can’le 
          blaw oot.”
        Sandy 
          raise an’ put to the door, an’ set the can’le alang nearer Bandy a bit, 
          an’ then sat doon i’ the sofa again.
        “I 
          hinna muckle to say,” says Bandy.  Bandy 
          was brocht up in Aiberdeen, you ken, an’ he has whiles a gey queer wey 
          o’ speakin’.  “I hinna very muckle 
          to say, you ken,” says he, “an’ konsequently, I’ll no’ say very
        muckle.”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” roared Watty Finlay.
        “The 
          Toon Cooncil elections is leemin’ in the distance,” continued Bandy, 
          “an’, as ceetizens o’ the Breetish Empyre, we maun look oot for fit 
          an’ proper persons to repnisent the opinions o’ the democracy in the 
          Hoose o’ — in the Toon Hoose, an’ on the Police Commission.  
          Gentlemen-“
        This 
          garred a’ the billies sit back in their seats, an’ dicht their moos 
          wi’ their jeckit sleeves, an’ host.  
          Watty Finlay nearhand cowpit ower the bucket he was sittin’ on; 
          but he got his balance again, an’ sayin’, “Ay, man,” heich oot, he got 
          a’ richt sattled doon again.
        “Gentlemen,” 
          says Bandy, “the time for action draws at hand.  Oor watter is no fit for ki drinking; an’ there’s fient a thing 
          but watter in the weet dock.  My 
          heart bleeds when I go roond the shore an’ see all the ships sailin’ 
          oot o’ the herbir, an’ no’ a livin’ sowl comin’ in.  
          Gentlemen, that herbir’s growin’ a gijantic white elephant.”
        “An’ 
          so’s the Watter Toor, an’ the Lifeboat too,” roared Dauvid
        Kenawee.
        “The 
          toon’s foo o’ white elephants, a’ colours,” said Moses
        Certricht.  “The Toon Cooncil’s made it juist like a wild 
          beast show.”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” cried the whole lot; an’ Stumpie Mertin, gettin’ a little excited, 
          roared “Order,” an’ set th m a’ a-lauchin’.
        “Gentlemen,” 
          said Bandy again, “it’s as plen’s a pikestaff that a’ oor municeepal 
          affairs is clean gaen to the deevil a’thegither; an’ I have much pleasure—”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” said Watty Finlay, “he’s the very man.” 
        There was a bit lauch at this, an’ Watty added, “I mean Sandy, 
          of coorse—no’ the deevil ‘at Bandy was speakin’ aboot.”
        “I 
          was genna say,” said Bandy, “when I was interrupit by the honourable 
          gentleman——”
        “O, 
          gie’s a rest,” said Watty; an’ Bandy had to begin again.
        “I 
          was genna say,” he said, “that we maun get a haud o’ a puckle men o’ 
          abeelity an’ straucht-forritness, an’ I have much pleasure in proposin’ 
          a vote of thanks to oor worthy freend, Mester Bowden, for comin’ forrit 
          to abolish the Toon Cooncil o’ every rissim o’ imposeeshin, till taxation 
          shall vanish into oblivion, an’ be a thing o’ the past.  
          Mester Bowden is a man—“
        “Hear, 
          hear,” says Watty again.
        “Mester 
          Bowden is a man that will never do onything——”
        hear, 
          hear,” Watty stricks in again.  He 
          juist yatter-yattered awa’ like a parrot a’ the time.
        “Onything 
          below the belt,” proceeded Bandy.  “Give 
          him your votes, gentlemen.  I 
          can recommend him.  Sandy—I mean 
          Mester Bowden, will stick to his post like Cassybeeanka, or whatever 
          they ca’d the billie that was brunt at the battle o’ the Nile.
        He’ll 
          no’ be like some o’ them that, like Ralph the Rover,
         
        Sailed away,
        An’ scoored the sea for mony a day.
         
        Gentlemen, 
          let everyman here do his very best to get every elektor to vote for 
          Sandy, Mester Bowden, the pop’lar candidate.  
          Up wi’ him to the tap o’ the poll!”
        Bandy 
          cam’ doon wi’ his tackety buit on the boddom o’ the butter kit, an’ 
          in it gaed, an’ him wi’t, an’ there he was, clappin’ his hands, an’ 
          stanin’ juist like’s he’d on a wid crinoline.  
          You never heard sic a roostin’ an’ roarin’ an’ hear-hearin’ an’ 
          hurrain’!  I had to shut my een for fear o’ bein’ knokit 
          deaf athegither.  Stumpie Mertin 
          jumpit up as spruce as gin he had baith his legs, instead o’ only ane, 
          an’ forgettin’ whaur he was, he glowered a’ roond the wa’ an’ says, 
          “Whaur’s the bell, lads?”
        It 
          was Sandy’s turn noo; an’ efter Dauvid Kenawee, auld Geordie Steel, 
          an’ Moses Certricht had gotten the chairman pu’d oot o’ the butter kit, 
          an’ on to the boiler-heid again, Sandy raise ooten his seat wi’ a look 
          on his face like a nicht watchman.  
          They a’ swang their airms roond their heids, an’ hurraed like
        onything, an’ Sandy took lang breaths, an’ lookit roond him as gin he 
          was feard some o’ them wud tak’ him a peelik i’ the lug.
        When 
          they quieted doon, Sandy gae a host, an’ Watty Finlay said, “Hear, hear.”
        “Fella
        elektors,” said Sandy, “let me thank you for your cordial reception.”
        Sandy 
          had haen that ready aforehand, for he said her aff juist like “Man’s 
          Chief End.”  Syne he lifted his 
          fit an’ put it on the edge o’ the sofa.  
          He rested his elba on his knee, an’ his chin on his hand, an’ 
          lookit quite at hame, like’s he’d been accustomed addressin’ meetin’s 
          a’ his born days.
        “I 
          think oor worthy chairman spoke ower high aboot my abeelity,” said Sandy; 
          “but as far as lies in my pooer, I will never budge from my post, but 
          stand firm.”  At this point, 
          Sandy’s fit slippit aff the edge o’ the sofa, an’ he cam’ stoit doon 
          an’ gae Moses Certricht a daud i’ the lug wi’ the croon o’ his
        heid, 
          that sent Moses’ heid rap up again’ Dauvid Kenawee’s.
        “What 
          i’ the world are ye heavin’ aboot that heid o’ yours like that for?” 
          said Dauvid, glowerin’ like a wild cat at Moses: an’ Bandy kickit his 
          heels on the front o’ the boiler, an’ roared, “Order, gentlemen.  
          Respeck the chair!”
        I 
          was juist away to cry— ”Ye micht respeck my boiler, raither, an’ no’ 
          kick holes i’ the plester wi’ thae muckle clunkers o’ heels o’ yours”, 
          but I keepit it in.
        Sandy 
          got himsel’ steadied up again, an’ pulled doon his weyscot, syne gae 
          his moo a dicht, an’ buttoned his coat.  
          I cud see fine that he was tryin’ to keep up the English; but 
          it wasna good enough.  “I am no’ a man o’ learnin’,” said Sandy.  
        “I’m a wirkin’ man, an’ if I tak’ up my heid wi’ publik affairs, 
          it’s ‘cause I’ve naething else ado, and it’ll keep me oot o’langer.  
          As oor respeckit chairnan says, I’m no’ like Ralph the Rover, 
          sailin’ awa’ an’ scoorin’ the sea for mony a day.  
          That looks like a pure weyst o’ soap—juist like what goes on 
          i’ the Toon Cooncil daily-day.  You 
          may lauch, freends, but it’s ower true; an’ wha is’t peys for’t?”
        “It’s 
          his!  It’s his, lads!” roared 
          a’ the billies i’ the washin’-hoose.
        “It 
          is so,” said Sandy.  “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 usefu’ 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!  What 
          aboot the grand view you get?  A 
          puckle o’ thae Cooncillors crack as gin they were genna pet bow-windas 
          into a’ the graves, to lat ye hae a grand view efter you was buried.  
          Blethers o’ nonsense!  That’s 
          juist what I ca’ scoorin’ the sea like Ralph the Rover.”
        By
        faigs, lads, Sandy garred me winder gin this time.  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.”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” put in Watty as uswal; an’ Bandy added, “It has muckle need, 
          as my nose can tell ye.”
        “What 
          d’ye think o’ a midden i’ the very middle o’ your toon?“ Sandy gaed 
          on.  “I paws fur an answer,” he said in a gravedigger’s 
          kind o’ a voice.  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 was 
          up to the neck amon’ the claes I had steepin’ for the morn’s washin’.  
          The nesty footer that he was, I cudda dune I kenna what till 
          him.
        “Ye 
          great, big, clorty, tarry beast,” I roared in at the winda; “come oot 
          amon’ my claes this meenit, or I’ll come in an’ kin’le the fire, an’ 
          boil ye.”  Sandy bloo oot the can’le; an’ by a’ the how-d’ye-does 
          ever was heard tell o’, you niver heard the marrow o’ yon.  Stumpie Mertin roared “Order! Feyre!” at the 
          pitch o’ his voice; an’ the chairman was yowlin’, “For ony sake, gie’s 
          a grip o’ some o’ your hands till I get oot o’ this draw-wall, or I’m 
          a deid man.”
        I 
          think he had gotten haud o’ a shelf abune his heid, an’ giein’ himsel’ 
          a poo up; for there was a most terriple reeshel o’ broken bottles, an’ 
          beef tins, an roarin’ an’ swearin’, you never heard the like.
        “What 
          i’ the face o’ the earth was ye doin’ blawin’ oot the can’le, Sandy?” 
          said Dauvid Kenawee.  “Hold on 
          a meenit till I strik’ a spunk, an’ see wha’s a’ deid,” he says; an’ 
          wi’ that he strak’ a match an’ lichtit the can’le.  
          Bandy had gotten himsel’ akinda warsled oot o’ the boiler, but 
          Stumpie Mertin had tnakit his wid leg ower by the ankle, an’ there he 
          was hawpin’ aboot, gaen bobbin’ up an’ doon like a rabbit’s tail, roarin’ 
          “Murder!”
        “I 
          think we’ll better lave ower the rest o’ the mectin’ till anither nicht,” 
          said Moses Certricht, “an’ we can look into the toon’s midden some ither 
          time.”
        “Juist 
          tak’ a look roond aboot ye,” says I, in at the winda, “an’ ye’ll see 
          midden eneuch.  Wha’s genna clean 
          up that mairter?  I paws for 
          a answer,” says I, in a voice as like Sandy’s bural-society wey o’ speakin’ 
          as I cud manish. “Speak aboot pettin’ Sandy Bowden at the tap o’ the 
          poll.  He’ll be mair use at the end o’ the bissam 
          shaft, I’m thinkin’.”
        “C’wey, 
          you lads,” says Bandy.  “I’m 
          soakin’ dreepin’ throo an’ throo, an’ it’s time I was oot o’ this.”
        “Hear, 
          hear,” says Watty again; an’ oot the entry they a’ merched withoot a 
          wird.  If I’m no mista’en that’ll be the end o’ Sandy’s 
          Toon Cooncillin’; an’ time till’t, I think.  The man’s no’ wyse to think aboot ony sic thing.  Perfeckly ridic’lous!
        Sandy 
          an’ me were oot the Sands enjoyin’ a bit walk juist yesterday efternune, 
          an’ we were dreedfu’ quiet.  There 
          didna appear to be onything to speak aboot ava.  
          So I juist said in a kind o’ jokey wey, “Ay, Sandy, an’ hae ye 
          seen the Ward Committee yet, laddie, aboot that Toon Cooncil bisness.”
        As 
          shure’s ocht, he grew reed i’ the face; but he got richt efter a whilie, 
          an’ he says, “We’re genna be like the Skule Brod efter this, Bawbie.  We’ll hae oor meetin’s in private, an’ juist 
          lat you an’ the publik ken aboot bits o’ things ye can mak’ naething 
          o’.  D’ye see?  
          If ye pet your nose in aboot ony bolies harkenin’, you’ll mibby 
          get the wecht o’ a bissam shaft on the end o’t.  
          That’ll learn ye to slooch an’ harken to ither fowk’s bisness.”
        “Keep 
          me!“ says I, I says.  “Ye’re 
          terriple peppery the nicht, Sandy.  
          Wha’s been straikin’ you against the hair, cratur?  
          It wasna me that shuved Bandy I’ the boiler; but he’d been neen 
          the waur o’ a bit steep, for he trails aboot a clorty-like sicht.  Him speak aboot the watter supply!  It’s no’ muckle he kens aboot the watter supply, 
          or the soap supply ether.”
        “Look 
          here, Bawbie,” says Sandy, “if you’re genna rag me ony mair aboot that, 
          it’s as fac’s ocht, I’ll rin awa’ an’ join the mileeshie.  I wud raither be blawn into minch wi’ an’ echty-ton gun than stand 
          ony mair o’ your gab.”
        “Tut, 
          tut, Sandy,” says I, “keep on your dickie, man.  Ye’re no’ needin’ to get into a pavey like that.  Keep me, fowk wud think ye was discussin’ the 
          auld kirk questin, the wey you’re roarin’.  
          The mileeshie wudna hae you at ony rate, an’ we’re no’ juist 
          dune wi’ ye at hame yet.  But 
          neist time you’re makin’ a speech, Sandy, dinna try an’ stand on ae 
          leg.  That’s what put ye aff the straucht.  Ye see-“
        I 
          lookit roond, an’ Sandy wasna there.  
          When I turned, here’s him fleein’ in the Sands wi’ his fingers 
          in his lugs, like spring-heeled Jeck.  
          I tell ye, that man winna heed a single wird I say till him.