Wast Wynd
i' the snaw, an' doon I cam o' my niz, as sure's your name's Charles
Chapman--and mair o' my legs oot o' my coats, I doobt, than was
a'thegither to my credit."

"I'm sure ye can hae no rizzon to tak' shame o' your legs, gude wife,"
was the gallant rejoinder; to which their owner replied, with a laugh:

"They warna made for public inspection, ony gait."

"Hoot! hoot! Naebody saw them. I s' warran' ye didna lie lang! But thae
loons--they're jist past a'! Heard ye hoo they saired Rob Bruce?"

"Fegs! they tell me they a' but buried him alive."

"Ow! ay. But it's a later story, the last."

"It's a pity there's no a dizzen or twa o' them in Awbrahawm's
boasom.--What did they till him neist?"

Here Andrew Constable dropped in, and Chapman turned towards him with
the question:

"Did _ye_ hear, Mr Constable, what the loons did to Robert Bruce the
nicht afore last?"

"No. What was that? They hae a spite at puir Rob, I believe."

"Weel, it didna look a'thegither like respeck, I maun alloo.--I was
stannin' at the coonter o' his shop waitin' for an unce o' sneeshin';
and Robert he was servin' a bit bairnie ower the coouter wi' a
pennyworth o' triacle, when, in a jiffey, there cam' sic a blast, an' a
reek fit to smore ye, oot o' the bit fire, an' the shop was fu' o'
reek, afore ye could hae pitten the pint o' ae thoom upo' the pint o'
the ither. 'Preserve's a'!' cried Rob; but or he could say anither
word, butt the house, scushlin in her bauchles, comes Nancy, rinnin',
an' opens the door wi' a scraich: 'Preserve's a'!' quo' she, 'Robert,
the lum's in a low!' An' fegs! atween the twa reeks, to sunder them,
there was nothing but Nancy hersel. The hoose was as fu' as it cud
haud, frae cellar to garret, o' the blackest reek 'at ever crap oot o'
coal. Oot we ran, an' it was a sicht to see the crater wi' his lang
neck luikin' up at the chimleys. But deil a spark cam' oot o' them--or
reek either, for that maitter. It was easy to see what was amiss. The
loons had been o' the riggin, and flung a han'fu' o' blastin' powther
down ilka smokin' chimley, and syne clappit a divot or a truf upo' the
mou' o' 't. Deil ane o' them was in sicht, but I doobt gin ony o' them
was far awa'. There was naething for't but get a ladder, and jist gang
up an' tak aff the pot-lids. But eh! puir Robert was jist rampin' wi'
rage! No 'at he said muckle, for he daur hardly open his mou' for
sweerin'; and Robert wadna sweer, ye ken; but he was nei