ever hear o' sic a man?

XII.

A DREADFUL DISASTER IN THE GARRET.

I'm shure I needna trauchle to haud in aboot the bawbees! That man o'
mine wud ramsh an' hamsh an' fling awa' mair than I cud save although I
was a millionaire. Nae farrer gane than lest nicht I heard some
ongaens up the stair. What's he up till noo? thinks I to mysel'. Ye
ken our garret? It's a anod bit roomie, an' we sleep up there i' the
simmer nichts, for the doonstair room gets that het an' seekrif, I
canna fa' ower ava sometimes. So I have the garret made rale snod an'
cosie. There's a fine fixed-in bed, an' I have the room chairs I got
when my Auntie Leeb de'ed, wi' a tidie or twa ower them, an' an
auld-fashioned roond tablie 'at I bocht at a rowp--ane o' thae anes
that cowps up an' sets back to the wa' when you're no' needn't. Auntie
Leeb left me her big lookin' gless too. Ye mind she had a shooster
shopie at the fit o' Collie Park, an' she had a big lookin' gless for
her customers seeing hoo their frocks fitted. Ay weel than, I set the
gless juist up again' the wa' at the end o' the garret, firnent the
fireplace an' it made the roomie real cantie an' cheerie lookin'.

When I heard the din Sandy was makin', I goes my wa's up the stair on
my tiptaes. It was juist upo' the stroke o' nine o'clock, an' I was
juist noo dune shuttin' the shop. The door was aff the snib; an', keep
me, when I lookit in, here's Sandy wi' an Oddfella's kilt an' a bushbie
on, an' his ilky-day's claes lyin' in a pozel on the table. I kent the
kilt whenever I saw't; it was the ane Dauvit Kenawee wears in the
Oddfellas' processions. Sandy was berfit, an', I'm shure, if ye'd seen
him! Haud your tongue! Ye never saw sic a picture. I suppose he'd
taen aff his buits no' to mak' a noise.

Ay weel, here he was wi' a bawbee can'le stuck up again' the boddom o'
the lookin'-gless, an' him maleengerin' aboot i' the flure afore't, wi'
the shaft o' the heather bissam in his hand, whiskin't roond his lugs,
progin' aboot wi't, an' lowpin' here an' there like a hen on a het
girdle. He croonshed doon, an' jookit frae side to side, an' then jamp
straucht up an' lut flee at something wi' the bissam shaft. Syne he
stack the end o' the stick i' the flure, an' bored an' grunted like's
he was rammin't through a pavemint steen.

"That's anither settle't," says he, pullin' up his stick; an' gie'n't a
dicht wi' the tails o' his kilt; syne makin' a kick at something wi'