Rough Scan
 






 
       
        XIX
         
        SANDY REVENGED.
         
         
        I 
          WAS tellin’ ye aboot Sandy’s caper oot the Sands, when Bandy an’ Pottie 
          Lawson made sic a fule o’ him.  We’d 
          never seen hint nor hair o’ them here sin’ syne; an’ I’m shure they’re 
          a gude reddance.  But wha shud 
          turn up i’ the washin’-hoose the ither nicht but Pottie!  
          He’d gotten Dauvid Kenawee to speak to Sandy, an’ gotten the 
          thing sowdered up some wey or ither, an’ there he was again, as brisk 
          as a bee.  But Sandy wasna that easy pacifeed.  He didna say muckle, but I’ll swag he gey Pottie 
          a fleg on Teysday nicht that he’ll no forget in a hurry—nether will 
          Mistress Mollison.
        Mind 
          ye, I didna think Sandy was so deep.  
          It was a gey trick.  Sandy 
          was determined to pey aff Pottie in his ain coin, an’ he had gotten 
          Bandy Wobster to kollig wi’ him to gie Lawson a richt fleg.
        There 
          was a big meetin’ i’ the washin’-hoose nae farrer gane than lest
        nicht; 
          an’ efter a fell while’s crackin’, Bandy startit to speak aboot mismirizin’ 
          an’ phrenology, an’ that kind o’ thing.  
          Bandy tell’d aboot some o’ his exploits mismirizin’ sailors, 
          an’ took on to show aff his po’ers on Sandy.  
          Sandy was quite open to lat him try his hand; so Bandy says, 
          “Has ony o’ you lads a twa-shulliny bit?”
        There 
          was a gude deal o’ hostin’ an’ heid-clawin’ at this question, ilka lad 
          lookin’ at his neeper as muckle as to say, “I’ve naething but
        half-soverins 
          i’ the noo.”
        “I 
          can gi’e ye fowerpence o’ coppers, if that’s ony use to ye,” said Stumpie
        Mertin, shuvin’ his airm up to the elba in his breeks pooch.
        There 
          was a burst o’ lauchin’ at this, an’ Sandy says, pointin’ wi’ his thoom 
          ower his shuder, “Less noise, you lads, for fear her nabs hears us.”  He littie thocht that her nabs—that was me, 
          of coorse—was at the winda hearin’ every wird.  
          Thinks I, my carlie, her nabs ‘ill lat you hear something the 
          nicht that’ll garr the lugs o’ ye dirl.
        There 
          wasna a twa-shilliny bit to be gotten, so Bandy had to tak’ the lid 
          o’ a sweetie-bottle an’ mak’ the best o’t.
        “Noo, 
          Sandy,” says he, “juist grip that gey firm atween your finger an’ your
        thoom, an’ stare at it as hard’s ye can.  
          Nae winkin’ or lookin’ aboot; an’, you lads, be quiet.  Noo, lat’s see ye!”
        Sandy 
          took the bottle lid, an’ sat doon wi’t in’s hand, an’ stared at it like’s 
          he was lookin’ doon intil a draw-wall.  
          A’ the billies sat roond starin’ at Sandy, an’ Bandy maleengened 
          aboot, playin’ capers wi’ his airms, an’ dancin’ like some daft man.  Ye cudda tied the lot o’ them wi’ a string, they were that taen 
          up wi’ Bandy’s capers.  He gaed 
          forrit efter a while an’ pettin’ his thooms on Sandy’s heid, he says, 
          in a coalman’s kind o’ a voice, “Sleep, sheep.”
        “He’s 
          awa’ wi’t,” says Bandy, turnin’ roond to the rest o’ them.  They were sittin’ wi’ their moos wide open, 
          an’ a great deal mair mismirized than Sandy, I thocht.
        Bandy 
          grippit Sandy by the shuders an’ heized him up on his feet; an’ there 
          he stuid, wi’ his een shut’ an’ his airms an’ legs hingin’ like’s he 
          was dreepin’ o’ water.  Bandy 
          shot up his heid an opened his een wi’ his fingers, an’ there was Sandy 
          juist like Dominy Sampson i’ the museum.
        “Noo,” 
          says Bandy, “we’ll touch his lauchin’ bump”; an’ he gae Sandy a stob 
          shoot the heid wi’ his finger, an’ Sandy set to the lauchin’, ye never 
          heard the like.
        “Stop 
          him, Bandy,” says Stumpie Mertin, gey excited, “on he’ll lauch his
        henderend.”
        “Peece, 
          vile slave, or I’ll dekappytate ye wi’ my skittimir,” says Sandy, glowerin’ 
          at Stumpie.
        “He 
          thinks he’s the Shaw o’ Persha,” says Bandy, fingerin’ awa’ amon’ Sandy’s 
          hair.
        Here 
          Sandy took to the greetin’, an’ grat something fearfu’.
        “Bliss 
          me,” says Dauvid Kenawee, “I never saw the like o’ that.  Is he ac’ually sleepin’?”
        “As 
          soond’s a tap,” says Bandy, an’ he touched Sandy again an’ stoppit the 
          greetin’.  “Noo, we’ll see what 
          like a job he wud mak’ o’ a speech at a ward meetin’,” continued Bandy; 
          an’ he gae Sandy a slap on the shuder an’ says, “Noo, Mester Bowden, 
          we’re at a ward meetin’, an’ you’re stanin’ for the Cooncil.  
          There’s Pottie Lawson in the chair, an’ it’s your turn to speak
        noo.  Lat’s hear ye gie them 
          a gude screed on the topiks of the day.”
        Sandy 
          gae a bit hauch, an’ swallowed a spittal, an’ stappin’ forrit a
        bittie, 
          began— ”Mester Chairman—”  He 
          gae Pottie a glower that nearhand knokit him aff the box he was sittin’ 
          on.  “Mester Chairman,” says he, “we are gaithered 
          thegither to meet wan anither as fella ratepeyers.  If you want a tip-top cooncillor, I’m your 
          man.  Regairdin’ this noo kirkyaird
        bisness, I think it’s ridic’lous to spend the toon’s bawbees buyin’ 
          buryin’ grund for fowk that’s no’ deid.  
          Time eneuch to look oot for buryin’ grund when fowk’s deid.  An’ lat fowk bury themsel’s, just as they like.  
          Lat them look oot for their ain grund, an’ no’ bather the ratepeyers 
          lookin’ oot grund for them.  We’ll hae to get oor brakfast frae the Toon 
          Cooncil by an’ by, an’ it’ll a’ go on the rates, that’s juist as fac’s
        ocht.  A’ thing’s on’ the rates
        nooadays, frae births to burals.  But 
          I hear wan of my audience cry, ‘What aboot the Auld Kirk?’  Weel, that’s a nither question.  I think that the shuner the Auld Kirk’s aff 
          the pairis the better.  We’ve 
          plenty paupirs withoot it.  If 
          it canna do withoot parokial relief, lat it into the puirhoose.  That’s what they wud do wi’ you an’ me if we was needin’ on the
        pairis.  What d’ye think o’ that?  Then there’s the toon’s wall an’ the
        herbir.  
          Weel, there’s no muckle in ony o’ them.  
          There’s hardly ony watter i’ the teen, an’ there’s naething but 
          watter i’ the tither.  But mibby if there was a noo licence or twa 
          doon aboot the shore, there micht be mair traffik i’ the herbir.  The trustees wud mibby need to chairge shore 
          dues on lads ‘at was landit on the kee noo-an’-than.  They cud be shedild as live stock, altho’ they were half-deid wi’ 
          drink an’ droonin’ thegither.  An’ 
          noo a wind or twa aboot—”
        Bandy 
          touched Sandy here, an’ he stoppit, an’ a’ the lads clappit their hands.
        Then 
          Bandy gae Sandy a touch here an’ there, an’ ye never saw the like.  He ate a penny can’le, an’ drank half a bottle 
          o’ ink, an’ I cudna tell ye a’ what.  
          The billies lookit as gin they were gettin’ cerrifeed at Sandy, 
          when I noticed him gie Bandy a bit wink on the sly; an’ I saw syne that 
          Sandy was nae mair mismirized than I was.
        “There’s 
          neen o’ ye here ‘at Sandy has ony ill-will at,” says Bandy; ‘”we’ll 
          see what like his fechtin’ bump wirks.” 
        Wi’ that he gae him a touch ahent the lug, an’ Sandy was layin’ 
          aboot him in a wink.  “Dinna 
          touch him, or he’ll mittal some o’ ye,” says Bandy; an’ the billies 
          a’ cleared awa’ to the ither end o’ the washin’-hoose.
        A’ 
          o’ a sudden Sandy gnippit an’ auld roosty hewk that was lyin’ on the 
          boiler, an’ rparin’, “Whaur’s Pottie Lawson, an’ I’ll cut his wizand 
          till him,” he made a flee at the door.  
          You never saw sic a scramblin’ an’ fleein’.  
          Stumpie Mertin dived in ablo the sofa, an’ Dauvid Kenawee jumpit 
          up on the boiler, an’ aff wi’ the lid for a shield.  
          Pottie was gaen bang oot at the door when Sandy grippit him by 
          the cuff o’ the neck.  But Pottie sprang oot o’ the coat—it wasna 
          ill to get ooten, puir chield—an’ doon the yaird a’ he cud flee, wi’ 
          Sandy at his tail, whirlin’ the hewk roond his heid, an’ skreechin’ 
          like the very mischief.  Bandy 
          an’ a’ the rest cam’ fleein’ efter Sandy.  
          Pottie took the yaird dyke at ae loup, an landit richt on Mistress 
          Mollison’s back, an’ sent her bung into the middle o’ a lot o’ Jacob’s 
          ledder ‘at she has growin’ in her yaird.  
          She gaed clean oot o’ sicht, an’ juist lay an’ roared till her 
          man cam’ oot an’ helpit her into the hoose.
        “O, 
          it’s the deevil fleein’ efter somebody,” she said.  “An’ he has an auld hewk in his hand, an’ I saw the sparks o’ feyre 
          fleein’ frae his tail.  An’ there’s 
          aboot sixteen hunder ither deevils at his heels.”
        On 
          floo Pottie yalpin’ “Pileece,” “Murder,” ”Help,” wi’ Sandy at his tails, 
          an’ the ither half-dizzen followin’ up, pechin’ like cadgers’
        pownies.  Pottie gaed clash into Stumpie Mertin’s coal 
          cellar, an’ lockit the door i’ the inside.  
          Sandy kickit at the door, an’ Pottie yalled like a wild cat.  Sandy cam’ awa’ an’ met the ither
        billies, 
          an’, stoppin’ them, tell’d them he was nae mare mismirized than they 
          were.  “I wantit to gie Pottie a fleg, an’ I think 
          he’s gotten’t,” says he.  “Him 
          an’ me’s square noo.”
        They 
          gaed back to Stumpie’s cellar, an’ gin this time there were twenty laddies 
          an’ twa pileece roond the door.
        “It’s 
          Pottie Lawson gane daft,” said the laddies to the pileece.  “He’s foamin’ at the moo.”
        Efter 
          an awfu’ wey o’ doin’ they got Pottie haled oot o’ the cellar an’
        hame; 
          an’ it’s my opinion he’ll never be seen in oar washin’-hoose again; 
          an’ I’m shure I’ll no’ brak’ my heart.
        But 
          aboot the can’le an’ the ink—you mibby winder hoo Sandy manished to 
          stamack them.  I gaed in an’ 
          smelt the ink.  It was sugarelly watter, an’ the can’le had 
          been cut oot o’ a neep an’ laid juist whaur it was handy.
        Ye 
          never heard sic lauchin’ as there’s been sin’ the story eekit
        oot.  Sandy’s heid pillydakus amon’ them a’
        noo, 
          an’ they think he’s peyed aff Pottie wi’ compound interest.  It’s made Pottie fearder than ever; they tell 
          me he’s been looking efter a job at the Freek bleechin’, so as to get 
          awa’ oot o’ the toon for a while.