his berfit fit--"Let us do or die," says he; "Scots wha hae; Wallace
an' Bruce for ever; doon wi' every bloomin' Englisher; rip them up;
koo-heel!" Then he whiskit half-roond aboot, an' lut flee at a seckie
o' caff I had sittin' in a corner. "Come on, Mick Duff; every deevil
o' ye! Change your slaverie," he says akinda heich oot, an' then he
lut yark at the seek again an' missed, an' made a muckle hole i' the
plester.

He stoppit an' harkin't for fear I'd heard the stishie he was makin'.
I never lut dab, but keepit juist as quiet's pussy.

"Auch, she's i' the shop," he says heich oot; an' then he floo back an'
forrit, fencin' an' jookin', an glowerin' at himsel' i' the
lookin'-gless; an' girnin' his teeth like a whitterit. I raley thocht
the man had gane sketch. He made a sweech wi' the bissam shaft 'at
garred the licht o' the can'le waggle frae side to side. Syne he
straughtened himsel' up afore the gless, an', touchin' the ruif wi the
point o' his stick, he says, "Viktory, viktory! Bannockburn is wun.
Hooreh! Hooreh!"

Juist at this meenit there was a rare like's fifty thunderbolts had
burst in Kowper Collie's auld-iron yaird. You never heard sic a soond.
It was like the crack o' a hunder cannon; an' in an instant a' was
dark, an' there was a reeshil o' broken bottles that garred me think
there had been an earthquake i' the back shop. Doon the stair I floo;
but, afore I was half-roads doon, Sandy jamp clean on my back--kilt,
bushbie, an' a'thegither. Doon I gaed like a rickel o' auld beans, an'
Sandy ower the tap o' me, heels-ower-gowrie. When I cam' to mysel',
here's Sandy lyin' streekit oot on his face i' the middle o' a box o'
Hielant eggs that I'd juist noo opened. The strap o' the bushbie was
roond his thrapple, an' was juist aboot stranglin' him, when I cut it
wi' the ham knife. Then he akinda half-turned roond, an' says he, "O
Bawbie! I'm deid. There's a bomshall gane throo my backbeen."

"Rise up," says I, "there's mair than you deid. There's twal' or
fifteen dizzen o' gude eggs bruist to bits. Whatever 'ill I do?" He
raise up; an' if ye'd only seen the sicht! It's as fac's ocht, it was
eneuch to fleg the French. Never will I forget it while I draw breath.
He lookit like some berfit tinkler wife that had been too, an' had
t'a'in, ower the heid, intil a barrel o' yellow oker; an' stickin' on
his weyst there was ane o' my winda tickets--"Just in To-Day."

"O, Bawbie!" he wheenged, "gae