"There's a heap o' them up to tricks. Gin I haena the rheumateese
screwin' awa' atween my shoothers the nicht it wonna be their fau'ts;
for as I cam' ower frae the ironmonger's there, I jist got a ba' i' the
how o' my neck, 'at amaist sent me howkin' wi' my snoot i' the snaw.
And there it stack, and at this preceese moment it's rinnin' doon the
sma' o' my back as gin 't war a burnie doon a hillside. We maun hae
mair constables!"
"Hoot! toot! Charles. Ye dinna want a constable to dry yer back. Gang
to the gudewife wi' 't," said Andrew, "she'll gie ye a dry sark. Na,
na. Lat the laddies work it aff. As lang's they haud their han's frae
what doesna belang to them, I dinna min' a bit ploy noo and than.
They'll noo turn oot the waur men for a pliskie or twa."
The fact was, none of the boys would have dreamed of interfering with
Andrew Constable. Everybody respected him; not because he was an elder
of the kirk, but because he was a good-tempered, kindly, honest man; or
to sum up all in one word--_a douce chield_--by which word _douce_ is
indicated every sort of propriety of behaviour--a virtue greatly
esteemed by the Scotch. This adjective was universally applied to
Andrew.
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