At the same time
the cold increased, and strengthened their impulses to muscular
exertion.
"Thae loons are jist growin' perfect deevils," said Charlie Chapman,
the wool-carder, as he bolted into his own shop, with the remains of a
snowball melting down the back of his neck. "We maun hae anither
constable to haud them in order."
The existing force was composed of one long-legged, short-bodied,
middle-aged man, who was so slow in his motions, apparently from the
weight of his feet, which were always dragging behind him, that the
boys called him Stumpin' Steenie (dim. for "Stephen"), and stood in no
more awe of him than they did of his old cow--which, her owner being a
widower, they called _Mrs Stephen_--when she went up the street, hardly
able to waddle along for the weight of her udder. So there was some
little ground for the wool-carder's remark. How much a second constable
would have availed, however, is doubtful.
"I never saw sic widdiefows!" (gallows-birds), chimed in a farmer's
wife who was standing in the shop. "They had a tow across the Wast Wynd
i' the snaw, an' doon I cam o' my niz, as sure's your name's Charles
Chapman--and mair o' my legs oot o' my coats, I doobt, than was
a'thegither to my credit.
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