My Man Sandy | Page 2

was juist busy pointin' oot the place to me in his book when
there was a terriple rattlin' oot on the street, an' aff he hookited to see
what was ado. He thocht it was a marriage, an' that there micht be a
chance o' some heys aboot the doors. What was my consternation when
the reeshlin' an' rattlin' stoppit at the shop door, an' I heard Sandy's
voice roarin', "Way-wo, haud still, wo man, wo-o-o, will ye!"
"What i' the face o' the earth's ado noo?" says I to mysel'; an' I goes my
wa's to the door. Sandy had been up at Munromont for a load o' tatties.
When I gaed to the door, here he was wi' a thing atween the shafts o'
his cairt that lookit like's it had been struck wi' forkit lichtnin'.
"What hae ye dune wi' Donal', Sandy?" I speered.
"Cadger Gowans an' me's haen a swap," says Sandy, climbin' oot at the

back o' the cairt, an' jookin' awa' roond canny-weys to the horse's heid.
"Wo, Princie," he says, pettin' oot his hand. "Wo, the bonnie laddie!"
Princie, as he ca'd him, ga'e a gley roond wi' the white o' his e'e that
garred Sandy keep a gude yaird clear o' him.
"He's a grand beast," he says, comin' roond to my side; "a grand beast!
Three-quarters bred, an' soond in wind and lim'. I got a terriple bargain
o' him. I ga'e Gowans Donal' an' thirty shillin's, an' he ga'e me a he
tortyshall kitlin' to the bute--the only ane i' the countryside. He's genna
hand it in the morn."
There was nae want o' soond in Princie's wind at ony rate. I saw that in
a minute. He was whistlin' like a lerik.
"He sooks wind a little when he has a lang rin," says Sandy; "but that's
nether here nor there. He's haen a teenge or twa, an' he's akinda
foondered afore, an' a little spavie i' the aft hent leg; but I'll shune pet
that a' richt wi' gude guidin'. He's a grand beast, I tell ye!"
Sandy stood an' lookit first up at the horse an' then doon at his cairt.
"He's gey high for the wheels," he says; "but, man, he's a grand beast.
He cam hame frae Glesterlaw juist like a bird. Never turned a hair. He's
a grand beast."
"Hoo mony legs has he, Sandy?" says I, lookin' at the great, big,
ravelled-lookin' brute. He was a' twisted here and there, an' the legs o'
him lookit for a' the world juiat like bits o' crunckled water-hose. The
cairt appeared to be haudin' him up, raither than him haudin' up the
cairt; an' he was restin' the thrawn legs o' him time aboot, juist like a
cock stanin' amon' snaw. "Ye shudda left that billie at the knackers at
Glesterlaw, Sandy," says I, I says. "I'm dootin' ye'll ha'e back to tak'
him there afore him or you's muckle aulder."
"Tyach! Haud your lang tongue," says Sandy. "Speak aboot things ye
ken something aboot. Wait till the morn. Ye'll see I'll get roond my
roonds an' a' my tatties delivered in half the time. I'll ha'e rid o' a' my

tatties an' be hame gin ane o'clock, instead o' dotterin' awa' wi' a lazy
brute like Donal'. I'll beat ye onything ye like, Gowans 'ill be ruin' his
bargain gin this time; but he'll no' get him back noo. I'll go an' see an'
get Princie stabled."
Sandy gaed inby to the shafts, but he sprang back when Princie ga'e a
squeek an' garred his heels play tnack on the boddom o' the cairt.
"That's the breedin'," says Sandy, gaen awa' roond to the ither side o'
the cairt.
"It soonded to me like the boddom o' the cairt, as far as I cud hear,"
says I, I says; but Sandy never lut on.
The brute had a nesty e'e in its heid. It turned roond wi' a vegabon'-like
look aye when Sandy gaed near't. He got up on the front efter a while,
an' ga'e the reinds a tit, an' Princie began to do a bit jeeg, garrin' Sandy
bowse aboot on the front o' the cairt like's he was foo. Sandy ga'e him a
clap on the hurdles to quieten him, but aye the hent feet o' him played
skelp on the boddom o' the cairt, till I thocht he wudda haen't ca'd a' to
bits. Syne awa' he gaed full bung a' o' a sudden, wi' Sandy rowin' aboot
amon' the tatties, an' hingin' in by the reinds, roarin', "Wo! haud still,"
an' so on. Gin he got to the fit o' the street there was a dozen laddies
efter him; screamin', "Come on you lads, an' see Sandy Bowden's
drumadairy. By crivens,