Read Ebook: My Man Sandy by Salmond James Bell

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Ebook has 370 lines and 25802 words, and 8 pages

"Ye'll better speer at Saunders what'll tak' it aff," says I till him the ither mornin'.

"If I had a grip o' Saunders, I'll tak' mair than the fairntickles aff him," says he; an' faigs, mind you, there's nae sayin' but he may do't; he's a spunky carlie Sandy, when he's raised.

But, as far as that's concerned, I'm no' sorry at it, for it'll keep the cratur awa' frae the place. Sin' Sandy put that sofa into the washin'-hoose, him an' twa-three mair's never lain oot o't. Lyin' smokin' an' spittin' an' crackin' aboot life bein' a trauchle, an' so on! I tell you, if it had lested muckle langer, I'd gien them a bucket o' water sweesh aboot their lugs some day; that's juist as fac's ocht.

But I maun tell you aboot my mischanter wi' my noo buits. I'm sure it has fair delighted Sandy. He thinks he's gotten a hair i' my neck noo that'll haud him gaen a while. He was needin't, I can tell you. If ilky mairter he's made had been a hair in his neck, I'll swag, there wudna been room for mony fairntickles.

Weel, I gaed awa' to the kirk lest Sabbath--Sandy, of coorse, cudna get oot wi' his yallow face an' neck. He had a bran poultice on't to see if it wud do ony guid. I canna do wi' noo buits ava, till I've worn them a while. I pet them on mibby to rin an errand or twa, till they get the set o' my fit, an' syne I can manish them to the kirk. But I canna sit wi' noo buits; they're that uneasy. I got a noo pair lest Fursday, an' tried them on on Sabbath mornin'. But na, na! Altho' my auld anes were gey binkit, an' worn doon at the heels, I juist put them on gey hurried, an' aff I set to the kirk, leavin' Sandy to look efter the denner.

I was feelin' akinda queerish when I startit; but I thocht it was juist the hurry, an' that a breath o' the caller air wud mak' me a' richt. But faigs, mind ye, instead o' better I grew waur. My legs were like to double up aneth me, an' my knees knokit up acrain' ane anither like's they'd haen a pley aboot something. I fand a sweit brakin' oot a' ower me, an' I had to stop on the brae an' grip the railin's, or, it's juist as fac's ocht, I wudda been doon i' the road on the braid o' my back. I thocht I was in for a roraborialis, or some o' thae terriple diseases. Eh, I was feard I wud dee on the open street; I was that! Mysie Meldrum noticed me, an' she cam' rinnin' to speer what was ado.

"I think we're aboot the henmost, Bawbie," says she. "We're gey late; but I'll bide aside you, lassie."

We sat for the maitter o' ten meenits, an' I got akinda roond, an' thocht I wud try an' get hame. Mistress Kenawee had putten on her tatties an' come oot for a dander a bittie, an' noticed the twa o's; so she cam' up, an' I got her airm an' Mysie's, an', though it was a gey job, we manished to get hame. An' gled I was when I saw Sandy's yallow nose again, I can tell ye, for I was shure syne I wud dee at hame amon' my nain bed-claes.

"The Lord preserve's a'!" says Mysie when she saw Sandy. "What i' the name o' peace has come ower you? I'll need to go! I've Leeb's bairns at hame, you see, an' this is the collery or the renderpest or something come ower you twa, an' I'm feard o' smittin' the bairns, or I wudda bidden. As shure's I live, I'll need to go!" an' she vanisht oot at the door wi' a face as white's kauk.

"I think I'll rin for the doctor, Bawbie," said Mistress Konawee. She kent aboot Sandy's fairntickles afore, of coorse, an' Sandy's yallow fizog didna pet her aboot.

"Juist hover a blink," says I, "till I see if I come to mysel'."

I sat doon in the easy-chair, an' Sandy was in a terriple wey aboot me. He cudna speak a wird, but juist keepit sayin', "O dinna dee, Bawbie, dinna dee; your denner's ready!" He lookit me up an' doon, an' then booin' doon till he was for a' the world juist like a half-steekit knife he roars oot, "What's ado wi' your feet, Bawbie? Look at them! Your taes are turned oot juist like the hands o' the tnock, at twenty meenits past echt. You're shurely no genna tak' a parrylattick stroke."

I lookit doon, an' shure eneuch my taes were turned oot an' curled roond like's they were gaen awa' back ahent my heels. Mistress Kenawee got doon on her knees aside me.

"Preserve's a', Bawbie," says she; "you have your buits on the wrang feet! Nae winder than your knees were knokin' thegither wi' thae auld worn-doon heels turned inside, an' your taes turned oot."

But I'll better no' say nae mair aboot it. I was that angry; and Mistress Kenawee, the bissam, was like to tnet hersel' lauchin'; but; I ashure ye, I never got sik a fleg in my life--an' sik simple dune too, mind ye.

SANDY STANDS "EMPIRE" AT A CRICKET MATCH.

"Go on, Jock," says ane o' them, gien anither ane a shuve forrit. "You're the captain; speak you."

Jock gae a host, an' syne layin' his hand--a gey clorty ane it was--on the coonter, an' stanin' on ae fit, he says--"Isyin?"

"Sandy," said the captain.

"No," said ane o' the birkies ahent; "your Sandy--Sandy Bowden."

"Ay, he's in," says I; "but you shud mind an' gie fowk their richt names when ye're seeking them. Ye micht hae smeddum enough to say Mester Bowden, or Alexander Bowden. Your teacher michta tell't ye that."

I gaed awa' doon the yaird to get Sandy, an' juist as I was gaen oot at the back door I heard ane o' the sackets sayin', "What's she chatterin' aboot? She ca's him Sandy hersel'; I've heard her of'en." Did ever ye hear what impident young fowk's gettin' noo-a-days? It's raley terriple. When I was young, if I'd sen the like o' that, I'd gotten a smack i' the side o' the heid that wudda garred the wa' tak's anither.

"Oo, ay," says Sandy, when I tell't him. "That'll be the lads frae the Callyfloor C.C. They said they were mibby genna look yont the nicht."

He cam' up an' took the loons to the back shop, an' I heard them sayin' they wantit him to be empire at their match wi' the second eleven o' the Collie Park. There was a fell kurn fowk cam' into the shop, an' I didna hear nae mair; but efter a whilie Sandy cam' to the door wi' the laddies, an', gien his hand a wave, he says to them, as they were gaen awa, "A' richt than; three sharp; I'll do my best."

"Oh no," says Sandy. "That's a deputation frae the Callyfloor C.C. I gae them a tume orange box a week or twa syne to haud their bats an' wickets, an' they made me their pattern."

"A gey queer pattern," says I, wi' a lauch. "Faigs, Sandy, if they shape themselves efter your pattern, their mithers an' wives--if ever they get that len'th--'ill lose a hankie o' sleep wi' them, I'm thinkin'."

"O, that's juist the orange box," says Sandy. "But they want me for empire the morn's efternune. They're genna play the second eleven o' the Collie Park C.C. a match at bat an' wickets on the Wast Common. It'll be a rare affair. Ye micht get Mistress Kenawee to look efter the shop for an 'oor or twa, an' come ootbye, Bawbie."

Ay, weel, to mak' a lang story short, Sandy an' me got ootbye to the Wast Common on Setarday efternune; an' awa we gaed up to a corner o' the Common whaur there was aboot a hunder loons gaithered. The loonie that they ca'd the captain cam' forrit. He was berfit, an' had his jecket an' weyscot aff, an' his gallaces lowsed i' the front an' tied roond his weyst.

"We've won the toss, Sandy," says he, "an' the Collie Park's genna handle the willa first. We've sent them in to see what they'll mak'."

Sandy took me up the brae a bit, an' I got set doon on the girss wi' Nathan aside me. I took him wi's juist to explain the match, d'ye see, an' aboot the bats an' wickets, an' sic like, an' so on, because I'm no' juist acquant wi' a' the oots an' ins o' the thing. A lot o' the loons gathered roond an' lay doon on the girss, an' they keepit their tongues gaen to the playin', I can tell ye. Ye wudda thocht they kent mair aboot cricket than the loons that were playin'.

Weel, the match got startit. They set Sandy at the end nearest the dyke; an', faigs, he lookit gey weel, mind ye. The captain loonie wirks at the heckle-machines, an' he'd gotten a len' o' the second foreman's white canvas coat, an' gae't to Sandy. It was to keep his shedda oot ahent the bailer's airm, Sandy said; but it didna appear to mak' ony difference to his shedda. It was juist in the auld place, as far as I cud see.

Very weel, than, the match began, as I was sayin', an' a'thing gaed richt eneuch for a little. The Collie Park lads did fine for a while, but some o' them didna get so lang strikin' the ba' as ithers, an' they began to roar cheek.

"Noo, Batchy," said some o' them, as a gey mettled-lookin' loon got the bat, "strik' oot. Lat's see ye knokin' the colour oot o' Snapper Morrison's ballin'."

Sal, mind ye, an' Batchy wasna lang o' doin' that. He shut his een, an' hit sweech at the ba', an' awa' it gaed sailin' ower the dyke.

"Well away," roared the loons roond aboot me. "That's a sixer. Play up, Batchy!"

Batchy spat in his hands, an' set himsel' up for the next ba'. He lut drive at it, but missed, an' doon gaed his wickets. Ye never heard sic a row.

"A bloomin' sneak!" roared a' the laddies aside me thegither. "Dinna gae oot, Batchy. It rowed a' the road."

There was an awfu' wey-o-doin', an' aboot fifty laddies roond Sandy, a' yalpin' till him at ae time. Efter a lang laberlethan, the bailer got three shies at Batchy's wickets, because he tried to het what they ca'd a sneak. But he missed ilky time, an' syne Batchy wallapit the ba' a' ower the Common, an' floo frae end to end o' the wickets like's he wasna wyse. It was gey slow wark for Sandy though, an' I think he had gotten tired, for the laddies roond aboot me began to say, "There was thirteen ba's i' that lest over; I think Sandy Bowden's dreamin'," an' so on. I think mysel' Sandy had been doverin', for the ba' hut Batchy's wicket, an' every ane o' the loons playin' gae a yowl at the same meenit--"How's that?" Sandy near jamp ootin his white coat wi' the start; an', takin' till his heels, he was a hunder yairds doon the Common afore ane o' the laddies grippit him by the tails, an' speered whaur he was fleein' till.

"I was gettin' hungrie," says Sandy. "I was gaen ower to the toll for a biskit." That was a lee; for he tell'd me efter, he dreedit, when he heard the roar, that it was ane o' Sandy Mertin's ki gane wild; an' he took till his heels, thinkin' it was efter him.

"That bloomin' empire's a pure frost," I heard some o' the loons sayin'. "He canna coont; an' noo he's genna stop the match 'cause he's hungrie. Wha ever heard o' an empire gettin' hungrie?"

Sandy got back till his place, an' the match gaed on. "Over comin' up," said the ither empire forby Sandy; an' the laddie that was ballin' says, "Ay weel, than, I'm genna see an' get wid." He gae his arm an awfu' sweel roond, an' instead o' sendin' the ba' to the wickets, it gaed spung ower an' hut Sandy a yark i' the side o' the heid.

"There's wid," said the ither empire; "but it's no' a wicket for a' that." Sandy was springin' aboot wi' his heid in his oxter, an' a' the laddies roarin' and lauchin' like to kill themsel's.

I was ance genna gae doon an' tak' him awa' hame; but I thocht it micht look raither queer, so I lut him aleen for a little. The captain loonie began to ball, an' a gey wild-lookin' bailer he was. The Collie Park's henmost man--he was a little berfit craturie wi' nicker-buckers an' a straw hat--was in, an' the captain gae him an awfu' crack below the knee wi' the ba'.

"How's that?" he yowled at Sandy.

"Man, I believe that's fell sair," says Sandy, rubbin' the swalled side o' his heid.

A' the loons startit to the lauchin', an' the captain roars again, "Ay, but how is't?"

"Ye can easy see how it is," says Sandy. "The ba' strack him a yark on the kut."

There was mair lauchin', an' I saw Sandy was gettin' raised.

"Is't l--b--w., ye stewpid auld bloit?" said the impident little wisgan o' a captain, stickin' himsel' up afore Sandy.

"I'll l--b--double you," says Sandy, "if ye gie me ony o' your chat, ye half-cled horn-goloch 'at ye are"; and he took the sacket a kleip i' the side o' the heid wi' his open luif that tummeled him ower the tap o' the wickets like a puckle rags. In half a meenit a' the hunder laddies were round Sandy, an' him layin' amon' them wi' ane o' their ain wickets.

I'll swag the Gallyfloor C.C. got something frae their pattern lest Setarday efternune that they'll no forget in a hurry. Some men on the Common cam' doon an' shoo'd the loons awa' frae pappin' Sandy wi' duds, an' we got hame withoot any farrer mishap; but a' forenicht I heard Sandy wirrin' awa' till himsel', an' sayin' ilky noo an' than--"Ill-gettit little deevils; an' me gae them an' orange box too!"

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