Yesterday mornin' I got thrippence by hingin' aboot the Royal afore
the coches startit. I luikit a' up and doon the street till I saw
somebody hine awa wi' a porkmanty. Till 'im I ran, an' he was an
auld man, an' maist at the last gasp wi' the weicht o' 't, an' gae
me 't to carry. An' wha duv ye think gae me a shillin' the verra
first nicht?--Wha but my brither Sandy?'
'Lord Rothie?'
'Ay, faith. I kent him weel eneuch, but little he kent me. There
he was upo' Black Geordie. He's turnin' auld noo.'
'Yer brither?'
'Na. He's young eneuch for ony mischeef; but Black Geordie. What on
earth gars him gang stravaguin' aboot upo' that deevil? I doobt
he's a kelpie, or a hell-horse, or something no canny o' that kin';
for faith! brither Sandy's no ower canny himsel', I'm thinkin'. But
Geordie--the aulder the waur set (inclined). An' sae I'm thinkin'
wi' his maister.'
'Did ye iver see yer father, Shargar?'
'Na. Nor I dinna want to see 'im. I'm upo' my mither's side. But
that's naething to the pint. A' that I want o' you 's to lat me
come hame at nicht, an' lie upo' the flure here. I sweir I'll lie
i' the street gin ye dinna lat me. I'll sleep as soun' 's Peter
MacInnes whan Maccleary's preachin'. An' I winna ate muckle--I hae
a dreidfu' pooer o' aitin'--an' a' 'at I gether I'll fess hame to
you, to du wi' 't as ye like.--Man, I cairriet a heap o' things the
day till the skipper o' that boat 'at ye gaed intil wi' Maister
Ericson the nicht.
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