he grows he gets the waur, till I raley winder what'll happen
till him. He's richt sensible an' eident whiles; but when the fey
blude gets intil his heid, an' he gets into the middle o' ony rig, he's
juist as daft as the rochest haflin that ever fee'd.

When I heard the band on Setarday efternune, I threw the key i' the
shop door, an' ran doon to the fit o' the street to see the sojers
passin'. Wha presents himsel', merchin' in the front o' the band, but
my billie, Sandy. There he was wi' a hunder laddies roond him, smokin'
his pipe like's he was gettin' his denner ooten't, ane o' his airms up
to the elba in his breeks' pooch, stappin' oot to the musik like a
fechtin' cock, an' his ither airm sweengin' back an' forrit like the
pendilum o' the toon's clock. To look at him you wudda thocht he was
trailin' the band an' a' the sojers ahent him, he lookit that hard
wrocht. He never saw me--not him! His e'en were starin' fair afore
him; he wudna kent his ain tattie cairt, I believe, he was that muckle
taen up wi' his merchin'.

He landit hame till his tea atween sax an' seven o'clock, stervin' o'
cauld, but as happy's a cricket. "Man, Bawbie," he says, as I laid a
reed herrin' on the brander for him, "there's naething affeks me like
sojers merchin' to musik. It juist garrs my backbeen dirl, an' I canna
sit still. When they were doin' the merch-past this efternune, I had
to up an' rin, or I wudda thrappilt some lad sittin' aside's. That's
the wey it affeks me. I wudda gien a pound note juist to gotten a
richt straucht-forrit fecht amon' them for half an 'oor."

"You're juist like a muckle bubbly laddie, Sandy," says I. "It's a
winder you wasna awa' up the toon wi' them to see if ony o' the sojers
wud lat you cairry hame their gun. I raley winder to see an auld
tattie man like you goin' on like some roid loon."

"That's a' you ken, Bawbie," says he. "I ken mair aboot thae things
than you, fully; an', though I am a tattie man, look at Abraham Linkin;
he was waur than a tattie man to begin wi'; an' the Jook o'
Wellinton--michty, he was born in Ireland; an' look what he cam' till!
I tell you what it is, Bawbie, if they'd haen me at the battle o'
Waterloo, you wudda heard anither story o't. I feel'd within mysel',
that if I'd only haen the chance--see 'at that reed herrin's no'
burnin'--I michta been a dreel sergint or a general----"

"A general haiverin' ass," I strak in. "See; there's your herrin';
poor oot