ond the ben-hoose
table, an' had a fine game at the totum for cracknets.

Sandy juist got gey pranky, as uswal, afore he was lang startit. He's
aye the same when he gets amon' young lassies, the auld ass 'at he is.

"T tak's them a' but ane," he roared in the middle o' the game; an' he
grippit up a nivfu' o' the crack-nets, an' into his moo wi' them. His
een gaed up intil his heid, an' gin I hadna gien him a daud i' the
back, that garred the nets flee oot o' his moo a' ower tha table, he'd
been a chokit korp in a meenit or twa, juist as shure's the morn's
Setarday.

But little did I think what was afore's! Gin I'd kenned, I'd latten
him chok, the mairterin' footer 'at he is.

We a' gaed awa' doon the yaird aboot half-past seven, to see a noo
henhouse 'at Aleck had been tarrin' that efternune. He maun be a handy
earl, mind ye.

"Tak' care o' your frocks, for that tar's weet yet," says Aleck to the
lassies.

"Ay, man, so it is," says Sandy, takin' a slaik o't aff wi' his
fingers, an' syne dichtin't on the tail o' his sirtoo, the nesty
character, 'at I shud say sic a wird!

"Man, Aleck," says Sandy, when we were a' on the green juist takin' a
look roond aboot's, "it looks juist like the streen that you sat up 'on
that very tree there, an' pappit Gairner Winton wi' oslins that you'd
stealt ooten his ain gairden. I mind I was here when he cam' doon to
tell your father aboot your ongaens. You was a wild tyke o' a laddie,
I can tell ye. Your father gae you an awfu' paikin'; but fient a hair
did you care. He wasna weel dune tannin' you when you was roarin'
'Hairy Grozers'--that was a by-name o' the Gairner's--in at Winton's
shop door. You was a roid loon."

Aleck took a richt herty lauch at Sandy's blethers, an' the twa o' them
were juist thick an' three-faud afore they were half-an-'oor thegither.
Yet wudda thocht they'd kent ane anither sin' ever they were doakit.

Gin we cam' back, Aleck's mither had a fine supper a' ready on the
table. She had a can'le here an' there, an' pucklies o' chuckinwirth
an' persly scattered roond the rob-roys. It was awfu' nice. It would
raley garred ye think ye was amon' braw fowk. I was juist sittin'
admirin't when Aleck says, "Ay, then, are ye a' ready?"

We had to hover a blink till Mistress Mikaver ran ben the hoose for a
knife to Mey Mershell.

"Mester Bowden 'ill say the grace noo," says Aleck; an' Sandy was on
his feet like the shot o' a gun, hostin' to clear his