Stories by English Authors: Scotland (Selected by Scribners)
       “Tod, lad,” said Henders, “gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders’ll be carryin’        her off.”      

       Sam’l flung back his head and passed on.     

       “Sam’l!” cried Henders after him.     

       “Ay,” said Sam’l, wheeling round.     

       “Gie Bell a kiss frae me.”      

       The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam’l began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will’um Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.     

       There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which was lit by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger’s cart. Now and again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed after her, and then grinned to each other.     

       “Ay, Sam’l,” said two or three young men, as Sam’l joined them beneath the town clock.     

       “Ay, Davit,” replied Sam’l.     

       This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and it was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam’l joined them he knew what was in store for him.     

       “Was ye lookin’ for T’nowhead’s Bell, Sam’l?” asked one.     

       “Or mebbe ye was wantin’ the minister?” suggested another, the same who had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her after all.     

       Sam’l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed good-naturedly.     

       “Ondootedly she’s a snod bit crittur,” said Davit, archly.     

       “An’ michty clever wi’ her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.     


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