in cheepin' buits, an' he sticks to them,
rissen be't or neen. I can tell ye, it's a blissin' there's no' mony
mair like him, or we'd hae gey streets on Sabbath. The noise the
maitter o' twenty chields like Sandy cud mak' wi' their buit soles wud
fair deave a hale neeperhude.

Hooever, it wasna Sandy's buits I was to tell you aboot; it was my
nain. But afore I say onything aboot them, I maun tell you aboot the
fairntickles. As I was sayin', Sandy's terriple fairntickled aboot the
neck an' the sides o' the nose, an' oor lest holiday made him a hankie
waur than uswal. He's a gey prood mannie too, mind ye, although he
winna haud wi't. But I can tell you it's no a bawbee-wirth o' hair oil
that sairs Sandy i' the week. But that's nether here nor there.

Weel, Sandy had been speakin' aboot his fairntickles to Saunders Robb.
Saunders, in my opinion, is juist a haiverin' auld ass. He's a
hoddel-dochlin', hungert-lookin' wisgan o' a cratur; an', I'm shure, he
has a mind to match his body. There's naethin' he disna ken
aboot--an', the fac' is, he kens naething. He's aye i' the wey o'
improvin' ither fowk's wark. There's naethin' Saunders disna think he
could improve, excep' himsel' mibby. I canna be bathered wi' the
chatterin', fykie, kyowowin' little wratch. He's aye throwin' oot
suggestions an' hints aboot this and that. He's naething but a
suggestion himsel', an' I'm shure I cud of'en throw him oot, wi' richt
gude will.

Weel, he'd gien Sandy some cure for his fairntickles, an' Sandy,
unbekent to me, had gotten something frae the druggie an' mixed it up
wi' a guid three-bawbee's-wirth o' cream that I had in the upstairs
press. He had rubbit it on his face an' neck afore he gaed till his
bed; but he wasna an 'oor beddit when he had to rise. An' sik a sicht
as he was! His face an' neck were as yellow's mairyguilds, an'
yallower; an' though I've taen washin' soda, an' pooder, an' the very
scrubbin' brush till't, Sandy's gaen aboot yet juist like's he was noo
oot o' the yallow fivver an' the jaundice thegither.

"Ye'll better speer at Saunders what'll tak' it aff," says I till him
the ither mornin'.

"If I had a grip o' Saunders, I'll tak' mair than the fairntickles aff
him," says he; an' faigs, mind you, there's nae sayin' but he may do't;
he's a spunky carlie Sandy, when he's raised.

But, as far as that's concerned, I'm no' sorry at it, for it'll keep
the cratur awa' frae the place. Sin' Sandy put that