Rough Scan
XX
SANDY’S APOLOGIA.
“ARE
ye there, Sandy? Sandy, are
ye there? Sandy! I winder whaur that man’ll be?
He’ll gae awa’ an leave the shop stanin’ open to the street,
as gin it were a byre, an’ never think naething aboot it! Are ye there, Sandy?” I heard Bawbie sayin’ in her bed the ither
mornin’.
“Ay,
I’m here,” says I. “What are
ye yalp-yalpin’ at? What d’ye
want? I had throo to the cellar to rin for tatties
to Mistress Hasties. What was
ye wantin’?”
“See,
look! Ye micht pet the pot on
the fire there, an’ warm that drappie pottit-hoach brue; an’ ye’ll tak’
it alang to Mary Emslie,” said Bawbie.
“Puir cratur, she’s gotten her death o’ cauld some wey or ither,
an’ I think she’s smittit her bairnie; for when I was yont yesterday
forenune, the puir little thingie was near closed a’thegither.
Juist poor the brue into the flagon, Sandy, an’ open the second
lang drawer there, an’ ye’ll get some bits o’ things rowed
thegither,
an’ tak’ them alang an’ gie them to Mary.
Turn the lookin’-gless roond this wey a bittie on the dresser
there, an I’ll notice in’t if onybody comes into the shop, an’ tell
them to hover a blink till ye rin yont to Mary’s. Rin noo, Sandy, an’ speer at Mary if she has
coals an’ sticks, an’ tell her to keep on a gude fire. Puir cratur!“
“Mary’s
a fell lot better the day, she thinks, Bawbie,” says I, when I cam’
back; “an’ she tell’d me the nurse had been in an’ snoddit up her hoose
till her, an’ sortit the bairn. Puir
cratur, she ac’ually grat when I gae her the bits o’ things for the
litlan; an’ tell’d me to thank ye.
She was terriple taen up when I said you wasna able to be up
the day, an’ howps ye’ll be better gin the morn.”
“I
think I’m better, but I’m awfu’ licht i’ the heid yet,” says
Bawbie. “Ye micht get the pen an’ ink, Sandy, an’ send
a scart or twa to thae prenter bodies.
Juist say I’ve taen a kind o’ a dwam, but that I’ll likely be
a’ richt again in a day or twa. An’
see an’ watch your spellin’. Gin
ony o’ the wirds are like to beat ye, juist speer at me, an’ I’ll gie
ye a hand wi’ them.”
“A’
richt than, Bawbie; I’ll do that,” says I.
“Noo, juist by an’ get a sleep for a whilie, an’ I’ll go ben
to the shop dask an’ write a scrift for you.
So
noo when I have the chance, I’ll better juist mention that Bawbie got
terriple seek i’ the forenicht yesterday, an’ she hardly ever steekit
an e’e a’ lest nicht. An’ nether
did I, for that pairt o’t, for she byochy-byochied awa’ the feck o’
the nicht, an’ I cudna get fa’in’ ower.
But I didna say onything, for I doot I’m to blame, although I’ve
never lutten dab that I jaloosed onything had happened.
Bawbie
was juist gaen awa’ to hae her efternune cup yesterday, an’ I was chappin’
oot the dottle o’ my pipe on the corner o’ the chumla, when it flaw
oot an’ gaed oot o’ sicht some wey.
I socht heich an’ laich for’t, but na, na; it wasna to be gotten. I thocht syne it had gane into the fire. But it’s my opinion noo, it had fa’in’ into
Bawbie’s teapot! She was sayin’
ilky noo-an’-than, “That tea has a dispert queer taste, Sandy. What can be the maitter wi’t?” I never took thocht; but when Bawbie fell seek,
an’ groo as white’s a penny lafe, thinks I to mysel’, “That’s your
dottle,
Sandy Bowden!“ But I never lut
wink; for, keep me, if Bawbie had kent, I micht as weel gane awa’ an’
sleepit on the Sands for the next twa-three nichts.
She’s a gude-heartit budy; but, man, she gets intil an awfu’
pavey whiles, an’ she’s nether to haud nor to bind when she gets raised. But, for ony sake, dinna lat on I was sayin’
onything.
Bawbie’s
an awfu’ cratur to tell fowk aboot me an’ my ongaens. Weel, there’s a lot o’ truth in what she says, I maun admit; altho’
she mak’s a heap o’ din juist aboot twa-three kyowows, noo-an’-than.
I dinna ken hoe it is ava’, I canna help mysel’ sometimes.
Man, the daftest-like ideas tak’ a haud o’ me whiles—juist like
a flesher grippin’ a sheep by the horns — an’, do what I like, I canna
get oot o’ their grips.
For
instance, I was gaen up the brae juist the ither nicht, an’ the kirk
offisher was stanin’ at the kirk door.
“Wud
ye bide i’ the kirk for ten meenits till I rin hame for a bissam shaft?”
says he. “I’ve broken the ane
I have.”
“Oo,
ay,” says I; “I’ll do that.”
Weel,
man, I wasna twa meenits into the kirk when I windered what like it
was for size aside Gayfield Park, an’ I thocht I wud see if I cud rin
fower times roond it in five meenits.
I buttoned my coat, an’ lookit the time, an’ aft’ I set up ae
passage, ower the pletform, doon the ither passage, throo the lobby,
an’ so on. I was juist aboot
feenishin’ when, gaen sweesh oot at ane o’ the doors, I cam’ clash up
again’ the minister, an’ sent him spinnin’ into the middle o’ the lobby,
an’ the collection plate in his oxter.
“What
in the name of common sense is the matter with you?” said he, gettin’
up, an’ shakin’ the stoor aff his hat.
“Man,
ye shud keep aff the coorse,” says I, forgettin’ for the meenit whaur
I was. “I was tryin’ to brak’
the record.”
“Break
the record!” he says, in a most terrible fizz.
“If it wasna for the laws of the country, I’d break your head.”
Man,
the passion o’ the sacket was raley veeshis.
He ac’ually spat oot the wirds; an’, faigs, I steekit baith my
nivs an’ keepit my e’e on him, for fear he micht lat dab at me.
Juist
at that meenit the kirk offisher cam’ in, an’ the minister turned, an’
gleyin’ roond at me gey feaned like, said something till him, an’ I
heard them crackin’ aboot gettin’ me hame in a cab.
I saw in a wink what they were jaloosin’.
“Ye
needna bather your heids aboot a cab,” says I.
“I’m wyser than the twa o’ ye puttin’ thegither; so keep on your
dickies. Gude-nicht,” says I;
an’ doon the front staps I gaed, three at a time, an’ hame.
The
beathel cam’ doon afore he gaed hane, an’ speered what i’ the world
had happened.
“I
was juist comin’ oot at the kirk door,” says I, “when the minister cam’
skelp up again’ me.” I didna
mention ‘at I was rinnin’. “The
cratur drappit i’ the flure,” says I, “like’s he’d been shot; an’ then
to crack aboot me bein’ daft! Did ye ever hear the like?”
The
kirk offisher gaed awa’ hame, clawin’ his heid, an’ sayin’ till himsel’,
“Weel, it raley snecks a’ thing. There’s
some ane o’ the three o’s no’ very soond i’ the tap, shurely; an’ whuther
it’s me or no’, I raley canna mak’ oot.”
But what I want to lat you see is that I do thae
daft-like things sometimes, I dinna very weel ken hoo.
I canna tell ~ye what wey it comes aboot. Is ony o’ ye lads ever affekit like that? Man, I’ve seen me gaen to the kirk wi’ Bawbie
sometimes, dressed in my sirtoo an’ my lum, an’ my gloves an’ pocket-hankie,
an’ a’thing juist as snod’s a noo thripenny bit, an’, a’ o’ a sudden,
I wud hae to pet my tongue atween my teeth, an’ grip my umberell like’s
I was wantin’ to chock it, juist to keep mysel’ frae tumblin’ a fleepy
or a catma i’ the middle o’ the road amon’ a’ the kirk fowk, lum hat,
sirtoo, an’ a’thegither. What
can ye mak’ o’ the like o that? It’s
my opinion sometimes that I was never meent to behave mysel’; an’ yet
I’m sensible o’ doin’ most terriple stewpid things of’en.
It’s a mystery to me, an’ a dreefu’ dwang to Bawbie.
But what can ye do? You
canna get medisin for that kind o’ disease!
As Bawbie says, I’ll never behave till I’m killed; an’ the fac’
o’ the maitter is, I’m no’ very shure aboot mysel’ even efter that. I ken it’s an awfu’ job for Bawbie tholin’
my ongaens; but, at the same time, if it wasna me, the neeper wives
an her wudna hae onything to mak’ a molligrant aboot ava. As the Bible says, we’re fearfu’ an’ winderfu’ made, an’, I suppose,
we maun juist mak’ the best o’t.
THE
END.