d theater, wi' as muckle gold hingin' roond aboot as wud mak' a'
the puir fowk in Arbroath millionaires. We got a grand seat, an'
a'thing gaed richt till near the feenish.

Mester Blair had what they ca' an opera gless wi' him, an' he handed it
to me to look throo. Sandy in wi' his hand intil his greatcoat pooch,
an' oot wi' his spygless, a great lang thing' like a barber's pole,
that he wan at a raffle at the Whin Inn. There was a chappie deein' on
the stage. He'd stuck himsel' wi' his soord, because a lassie wudna
mairry him, an' he was juist lyin' tellin' a' the fowk aboot crooil
weemin, an' peace in the grave, an' a'thing, when Sandy cockit up his
spygless to hae a glower at him afore he gae his henmist gasp.

I saw the chappie gien a kind o' a fear'd-like start, syne he sprang
till his feet an' roared, "Pileece, pileece! there's an anarkist an' a
feenyin's bom in the theater," an' took till his heels aff the stage.

You never saw sic a wey o' doin'. You speak aboot peace in the grave.
There wasna muckle peace in the theater. We was a' winderin' what was
ado, an' Sandy was busy peekin' roond wi' his spygless, when twa
bobbies cam' fleein' anower an' grippit him an' roared till him to
sirrender. I can tell you, he nearhand sirrendered ane o' the bobbies
wi' the spygless. If it hadna been for Mester Blair gettin' a haud o'
the wechty end o't, there wudda been a noo helmet, an' mibby a new
bobby needed in Edinboro.

The row was a' ower in five meenits, when Mester Blair explen'd things;
but if he hadna been wi's, I'm dootin' it wudda been a job. There was
ane o' the great muckle dosent nowts o' bobbies cam' an' gowpit in my
face, an' says, "D'ye think this ane's a woman?" I fand in ahent's for
my umberell; but my chappie gaed his wa's gey quick, or I'd gien him
the wecht o't across his nose. It was a gey-like wey o' doin' aboot
naething; but efter we got hame an' had oor supper we forgot a' aboot
it, an' spent a very happy 'oor or twa afore we gaed to oor beds.

XIV.

LOVE AND WAR.

Wudna you winder hoo some fowk grow aye the aulder the waur? You see
Toon Cooncillors, for instance, gettin' less use the langer they keep
their job; an' ministers--haud your tongue! If they're no' guid, they
get mair an' mair driech the langer they preach; even their auld
sermons, when they turn the barrel an' start at the boddom o' her,
appear to get driecher than ever. It's juist the same wi' Sandy--the
aulder