d,
when Tom Scales tottered into the kitchen, looking like death, his
hair standing upright; and he sat down on an oak chair, all in a
tremble, wiped his forehead with his hand, and, instead of speaking,
heaved a great sigh or two.

It was not till after he had swallowed a dram of brandy that he found
his voice, and said:

"We've the deaul himsel' in t' house! By Jen! ye'd best send fo t'
sir" (the clergyman). "Happen he'll tak him in hand wi' holy writ, and
send him elsewhidder deftly. Lord atween us and harm! I'm a sinfu'
man. I tell ye, Mr. Turnbull, I dar' n't stop in t' George to-night
under the same roof wi' him."

"Ye mean the ra-beyoned, black-feyaced lad, wi' the brocken neb? Why,
that's a gentleman wi' a pocket ful o' guineas, man, and a horse worth
fifty pounds!"

"That horse is no better nor his rider. The nags that were in the
stable wi' him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain down
a thack. I tuk them all out o' that, away from him, into the
hack-stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him. But that's
not all. When I was keekin inta t' winda at the nags, he comes behint
me and claps his claw on ma shouther, and he gars me gang wi' him, and
open the aad coach-house door, and haad the cannle for him, till he
pearked into the deed man't feyace; and, as God's my judge, I sid the
corpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin' and
strivin' to talk. I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hair
rising on my heed; but at lang-last I gev a yelloch, and say I, 'La!
what is that?' And he himsel' looked round on me, like the devil he
is; and, wi' a skirl o' a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o' my
hand. When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door. The
moon was shinin' in, ad I cud see the corpse stretched on the table
whar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi' a purr o' his foot.
'Lock it,' says he; and so I did. And here's the key for ye--tak it
yoursel', sir. He offer'd me money: he said he'd mak me a rich man if
I'd sell him the corpse, and help him awa' wi' it."

"Hout, man! What cud he want o' t' corpse? He's not doctor, to do a'
that lids. He was takin' a rise out o' ye, lad," said Turnbull.

"Na, na--he wants the corpse. There's summat you a' me can't tell he
wants to do wi' 't; and he'd liefer get it wi' sin and thievin', and
the damage of my soul. He's one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies
off Dardale Moss, that's always astir wi' the like aft