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 ony thing. 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 off me, you ill-tongued bissam," saya 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 genna be at me, but Dauvid Kenawee
stappit forrit, an' says he, "Saira 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 hae you shuvin' your nose in?" says Pottie Lawson.
"There was naebody middlin' wi' you."

"Juist you keep your moo steekit, Pottie," says Dauvid, "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 apung 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 haud 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 train