gey quick, an'
sune had Sandy's lum hingin' aside his greatcoat in the lobby.

We wasna lang set doon when in cam' Meg's man. A brisk-lookin' fellah
he is, I can tell you. He shook hands wi's as hearty's though we'd
come to gie him a job; an' in five meenits, tooch, you wudda thocht
Sandy an' him had never been sindered sin' they got on their first
daidles. I'll swag, Meg's fa'in on hex feet, an' nae mistak'!

I'm shure I'm no complainin', but Sandy Bowden's been an unsatisfaktory
man in mony weys; but, as the Bible says, we've a' a dwang o' some
kind, an' if I hadna gotten Sandy, weel, I michta haen a drucken son,
or a licht-heided dauchter. Wha can tell? We've a' a hankie mair than
we deserve, nae doot. I ken I have onywey; but that's nether here nor
there.

We were sittin' enjoyin' a crack, an' lookin' oot at the windas,
watchin' the bairns in their coaches, an' the birds fleein' aboot as
happy as crickets, huntin' for wirms amon' the young girss.

"The Meadows look very pretty i' the noo," said Mester Blair. "The
very birds enjoy the fresh green grass."

"They do that," put in Sandy. "It's a treat to see them, puir things.
They are fond o' a bittie o' onything green. I tak' a bit dander oot
the bunkers on a Sabbath mornin' whiles for a pucklie chuckin-wirth to
Dickie, an' you wud really think the cratur kent. He gleys doon when I
come in, as much as to say, 'C'way wi't, Sandy; I ken fine you have't
in your pooch!'"

"Bawbie here winna believe me," continued Sandy, gien Mester Blair a
wink, "but I've tell'd her twa-three times that when I've gane doon the
yaird i' the winter-time wi' my auld greatcoat--it's gettin' very green
noo, but it was a bit guid stuff aince in its day--the birds 'ill come
fleein' doon an' sit on the palin' aside me, an' wheetle-wheetle awa'
for a whilie. It's queer; but that's the effek the green appears to
hae on them."

Mester Blair leuch till I thocht he wudda wranged himsel'. A richt
hearty laucher he is. The lauch gaed a' ower him, an' you could hardly
sen futher it was comin' oot o' his moo or his baits, there was that
muckle o't.

Syne Sandy an' him got on to the crack aboot the tattie trade, an' you
wudda thocht Sandy was genna tak' him in for a pairtner, he had that
muckle to tell him.

"An' do you do much wi' the Americans?" said Mester Blair.

"I do a' their trade," said Sandy. "There's only three o' them buys
tatties in Arbroath noo. The ither twa's gey