Rough Scan
 






 
       
        XVIII
         
        SANDY RUNS A RACE.
         
         
        WEEL, 
          I’ll tell ye what it is, an’ what it’s no’—I thocht the ither nicht 
          that Sandy had gotten to the far end o’ his ongaens.  
          If ever a woman thocht she was genna hae to don her weeda’s weeds, 
          it was me.  I never expeckit 
          to see Sandy again, till he was brocht in on the police streetchin’
        buird.  But I’ll better begin my story at the beginnin’.  
          What needs I care whuther fowk kens a’ aboot it, or no’?  
          I’ve been black affrontit that often, I dinna care a doaken noo 
          what happens.  I’ve dune my best to be a faithfu’ wife; an’ 
          I’m shure I’ve trauchled awa’ an’ putten up wi’ a man that ony ither 
          woman wudda pushon’d twenty ‘ear syne!  
          But that’s nether here nor there.
        Weel, 
          to get to my story.  Aboot a 
          week syne I was busy at the back door, hingin’ oot some bits o’ things, 
          an’, hearin’ some din i’ the back shop, I took a bit glint in at the
        winda.  Fancy my surprise, when here’s Sandy i’ the 
          middle o’ the flure garrin’ his airms an’ legs flee like the shakers 
          o’ Robbie Smith’s “deevil.”
        “What 
          i’ the earth is he up till noo?” says I to mysel’.  He stoppit efter a whulie, an’ syne my lad quietly tnaks twa raw 
          eggs on the edge o’ a cup, an’ doon his thrapple wi’ them.  He brook up the shalls into little bitties 
          an’ steered them in amon’ the ase, so’s I wudna see them.  Atower to the middle o’ the flure he comes 
          again, an’, stridin’ his legs oot, he began to garr first the tae airm 
          an’ syne the tither gae whirlin’ roond an’ roond like the fly wheel 
          o’ an engine.  It mindit me o’ the schule laddies an’ their 
          bummers.  Weel, than; I goes 
          my wa’s into the hoose.
        “Ay, 
          it’s a fins thing an egg, Sandy,” says I; “especially twa.”  I turned roond to the dresser-heid, no’ to 
          lat him see me lauchin’—for I cudna keep it in—an’ pretendit to be lookin’ 
          for something.
        “It 
          is so, Bawbie,” says he; an’ I noticed him i’ the lookin’-gless pettin’ 
          his thoom till his nose, I whiskit roond aboot gey quick, an’ he drappit 
          his hands like lichtnin’, an’ began whistlin’ “Tillygorm.”
        “I’ve 
          heard it said,” says I, “that a raw egg’s gude for a yooky nose.”
        “You’re 
          aye hearin’ some blethers,” says he; “but there’s Bobbie Mershell i’ 
          the shop”; an’ but he ran to sair him.
        I 
          kent fine there was something up, so I keepit my lugs an’ een open, 
          but it beat me to get at the boddom o’t.  
          Pottie Lawson, Bandy Wobster, an’ Sandy have juist been thick 
          an’ three faud sin’ the Hielant games toornament, an’ I kent fine there 
          was some pliskie brooin’ amon’ them.  
          They’ve hardly ever been oot o’ the washin’-hoose, them an’ twa-three
        mair.  Great, muckle, hingin’-aboot,
        ill-faured scoonges, every ane o’ them!  I tell ye, Sandy hasna dune a hand’s turn for 
          the lest week, but haikit aboot wi’ them, plesterin’ aboot this thing 
          an’ that.  Feech!  If I was a man, as I’m a woman, I wud kick the whole box an’ dice 
          o’ them oot the entry.
        I 
          gaed by the washin’-hoose door twa-three times, an’ heard the spittin’, 
          an’ the ochin’ an’ ayin’, an’ some bletherin’ aboot sprentin’, an’ rubbin’
        doon, an’ sic like; but I cud mak’ nether heid nor tail o’t.  But, I can tell ye, baith heid an’ tail o’t cam’ oot on Setarday
        nicht.
        Sandy, 
          as uswal, put on his goshores on Setarday efternune, an’ awa’ he gaed 
          aboot five o’clock, an’ I saw nae mair o’ him till the lang legs o’ 
          him— But you’ll learn aboot that sune eneuch.  
          It was a sicht, the first sicht I got o’ him, I can tell you.
        I 
          was takin’ a bit cuppie o’ tea to mysel’ aboot seven o’clock, for I 
          had been terriple busy a’ forenicht.  
          Nathan was stanin’ at the table as uswal, growk-growkin’ awa’ 
          for a bit o’ my tea biskit.  “I dinna like growkin’ bairns,” I says to Nathan, 
          juist as I was genna gie him a bit piece an’ some noo grozer jeel on’t.
        “I’m 
          no’ carin’,” he says, blawin’ his nose atween his finger an’ his
        thoom, 
          an’ syne dichtin’t wi’ his bonnet.  
        “I wasna growkin’; but at ony rate I’ll no tell ye aboot Sandy.  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 Webster at the tap o’ the street.  He got them lyin’ oot the Sands, an’ he disna 
          ken naething aboot Sandy.”
        “O, 
          Alick Bowden,” 1 says to mysel’, says I; “I kent this would be the end 
          o’t some day!  He’s gane awa’ 
          dookin’ an’ gotten himsel’ drooned.  
          O, my puir man!  I howp they’ll get his body, or never anither 
          bit o’ fish will I eat!  There’s 
          Mistress Mertin fand a galace button in a red-waur codlin’s guts lest 
          week; an’ it’s no’ so very lang syne sin’ Mistress Kenawee got fower 
          bits o’ skellie i’ the crap o’ a colomy.  
          Puir Sandy!  I winder hoo they’ll do wi’ the bural society
        bawbees?”
        “Is 
          Sandy deid, Bawbie?” says Nathan.
        “Ay; 
          I doot he’s deid, Nathan, laddie,” says I.
        “An’ 
          will you lat me get a ride on the dickie at the bural, Bawbie ?“ says 
          Nathan, clawin’ his heid throo a hole in his glengairy.
        “Hand 
          your tongue, laddie,” says I; “ye dinna ken what you’re speakin’ aboot.”
        I 
          gaithered up the claes.  There 
          was nae mistakin’ them.  They 
          were Sandy’s!  The breeks pooches were foo o’ nails an’ strings, 
          an’ as muckle ither rubbish as you wudda gotten in Peattie Broon’s, 
          the pigman’s, back shop.  There 
          was a lot o’ fiddle rozit i’ the weyscot, an’ a box o’ queer-look in’ 
          ointment ca’d auntie stuff.  But 
          what strack me first was that his seamit an’ his drawers werena there.  “Cud he gane in dookin’ wi’ them on?” thocht I to. myeel’.  I cudna see throo’t ava.
        I 
          gaed awa’ to the shop door juist to look oot, an’ I sees Pottie Lawson, 
          Bandy Wobster, an’ twa-three mair at the tap o’ the street lauchin’ 
          like onything.  I throo the key 
          i’ the door in a blink, an’ up the street I goes.  
          Pottie was juist in the middle o’ a great hallach o’ a
        lauch, 
          when I grippit him by the collar.  He 
          swallowed the rest o’ his lauch, I can tell you.
        “What 
          hae ye dune till my man, ye nesty, clorty, ill-lookin’, mischeevious 
          footer?” I says, giein’ him a shak’ that garred him turn up the white 
          o’ his een.
        “Tak’ 
          your hand aff me, you ill-tongued bissam,” says he, “or I’ll lay your 
          feet fest for you.”
        “Will 
          you?” says I; an’ I gae him a shuve that kowpit him heels-ower-heid 
          ower the tap o’ Gairner Winton’s ae-wheeled barrow, that was sittin’ 
          ahent him.  When he got himsel’ gaithered oot amon’ the 
          peycods an’ cabbitch, he was gonna be at me, but Dauvid Kenawee stappit 
          forrit, an’ says he, “Same ye richt, ye gude-for-naething snipe ‘at 
          ye are.  Lift a hand till her, an’ I’ll ca’ the chafts 
          o’ ye by ither.”
        “What 
          bisness has you shuvin’ your nose in?“ says Pottie Lawson.  “There was naebody middlin’ wi’ you.”
        “Juist 
          you keep your moo steekit, Pottie,“ says Danvid, “or I’ll mibby be middlin’ 
          wi’ you.  You’re a miserable 
          pack o’ vagues, a’ the lot o’ ye, to gae wa’ an’ tak’ advantage o’ an’ 
          auld man!  Yah!  Damish 
          your skins, I cud thrash the whole pack o’ ye.”  He up wi’ his niv an’ took a hawp forrit.  
          Pottie gaed spung ower the barrow again, an’ sat doon on the 
          tap o’ the Gairner, wha was busy gaitherin’ up his gudes.
        “Come 
          awa’, Bawbie,” says Dauvid, takin’ a hand o’ my airm, “Sandy ‘ill turn 
          up yet.”  So awa’ we gaed, leavin’ 
          the fower or five o’ them wammlin’ awa’ amon’ the cabbitch, juist like 
          what swine generally do when they get in amon’ a gairner’s stocks.
        “Sandy’s 
          a fulish man,” said Dauvid, when we landit at the shop door.
        “Ye 
          micht as weel tell me that twice twa’s fower, Dauvid,” says I.  “Fulish is no’ the wird for’t.”
        “There’s 
          been some haiverin’ amon’ them aboot rinnin’; an’ Sandy, like an auld
        fule, had been bouncin’ aboot what he could do,” gaed on Dauvid, withoot 
          mindin’ what I said.  “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.  Sandy strippit juist doon at the second slippie on the Sands yonder.  
          He keepit naethiug on but his inside sark, an’ his drawers, an’ 
          a pair o’ slippers, an’ aff he set to rin ootby to the targets an’ back.  
          He wasna fower meenits awa’ when the lot o’ the dirty deevils—that 
          I shad ca’ them sic a name—gaithered up Sandy’s claes an’ cam’ their 
          wa’s in the road, leavin’ Sandy to get hame the best wey he cud.  
          Bandy Wobster gae the claes to Nathan at the tap o’ the street, 
          an’ tell’d him he fand them on the Sands.”
        “But 
          whaur’ll Sandy be?” says I.
        “That’s 
          mair than I can tell, Bawbie; but I’ll rin doon for the mistress, an’ 
          she’ll look efter the shop till we gae oot the Sands an’ see if we can 
          fa’ in wi’ him,” said Dauvid.
        Dauvid 
          gaed awa’ for Mistress Kenawee, an’ I ran up the stair to the garret 
          to throw on my bonnet, takin’ Sandy’s claes wi’ me.  
          Preserve’s a’, when I lookit into the garret, here’s the skylicht 
          open, an twa lang, skranky legs, wi’ a pair o’ huggers at the end o’ 
          them, wammlin’ aboot like twa rattlesnakes tryin’ to get to the
        fluir.  I drappit the claes, oot at the door, an’ steekit 
          it ahent me.  I keekit in aneth 
          the door, juist to see what wud happen.  
          Sandy landit cloit doon on the flure, an’ sat sweitin’, an’ pechin’, 
          an ac’ually greetin’.  What a 
          picture he presentit!  I cudna 
          tell ye a’ what he said.  There 
          were a lot o’ wirds amon’t that’s no’ i’ the dictionar’; an’ I can tell 
          ye, if Pottie Lawson an’ Bandy Wobster get the half o’ what Sandy promised 
          them, baith in this world an’ the next, they’ll no hae far to find for 
          a sair place.
        “Man, 
          gin ye’d haen the brains o’ a cock spug,” I heard him sayin’ till himsel’, 
          “ye michta jaloosed they were to play ye some prank.  You muckle, dozent gozlin’,” he says; an’ he took himsel’ a skelp 
          i’ the side o’ the heid wi’ his open luif that near ca’d him on his 
          back.  In his stagger his feet tickled amon’ his
        claes, 
          an’ he gaithered them up, an’ lookit fair dumfoondered like.  He put them a’ on; an syne—what think you?  
          Puir Sandy ac’ually sat doon an’ claspit his hands, an’ I heard 
          him sayin’, “I’m an awfu’ eedeit, a pure provoke to a’ ‘at belangs me 
          but if I’m forgi’en this time, I’ll try an’ do better frae this day 
          forrit.  An’ I’ll gie Pottie 
          Lawson a killin’ that he’ll no’ forget in a hurry.  He’ll better waurro, if I get a haud o’ him.  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 gaed aboot a’ Sabbath rale dementit like; an’, i’ the
        efternune, 
          I cam’ in upon him i’ the back shop dancin’ on the tap o’ a seck o’
        caff, an sayin’, “Ye’ll poach neen this winter, ye—“ an so on.
        Atween 
          you an’ me, it’ll no’ be a bawbee’s-wirth o’ stiekin’ plester that’ll 
          sair Pottie if Sandy gets his fingers ower him.
        “Ay, 
          you cam’ in withoot’ chappin’ on Setarday nicht, Sandy,” I says, says 
          I, at brakfast time on Munanday momnin’, ‘cause I saw fine he wantit 
          to speak aboot it.
        “I’ll 
          do the chappin’ when I get a grab o’ Pottie Lawson,” says Sandy.  “But I’ll tell you this, Bawbie; when I was 
          jookin’ alang by the roppie, tryin’ to get hame, it’s as fac’s
        ocht, 
          I thocht twa-three times o gaen plunk in amon’ the water, an’ makin’ 
          a feenish o’t.  I was that angry an’ ashamed.  But, man, I ran up throo the yairds, without 
          onybody seein’s, an’ got in at the skylicht.  
          I’ll swag, Bawbie, I never was gledder than when I cam’ cloit 
          doon on my hurdies on the garret flure.  
          But, as Rob Roy says, there’s a day o’ rekinin’; an’, by
        faigs, 
          there’ll be some fowk ‘ill get the stoor taen oot o’ their jeckits when 
          it comes roond, or my name’s no Si Bowden!”