Alec did not wait to clear himself of an accusation so gently put, but
was on the roof of Luckie Lapp's cottage before she had finished her
appeal to his generosity. He took the "divot aff o' her lum" and
pitched it half way down the brae, at the back of the cottage. Then he
scrambled from one chimney to the other, and went on pitching the sods
down the hill. At length two of the inhabitants, who had climbed up at
the other end of the row, met him, and taking him for a repentant
sinner at best, made him prisoner, much to his amusement, and brought
him down, protesting that it was too bad of gentle-folk's sons to
persecute the poor in that way.
"I didn't do it," said Alec.
"Dinna lee," was the curt rejoinder.
"I'm no leein'."
"Wha did it, than?"
"I can guiss; an' it shanna happen again, gin I can help it."
"Tell's wha did it, than."
"I wonno say names."
"He's ane o' them."
"The foul thief tak him! I s' gie him a hidin'," said a burly sutor
(shoemaker) coming up. "Thae loons are no to be borne wi' ony langer."
And he caught Alec by the arm.
"I didn't do it," persisted Alec.
"Wha killed Rob Bruce's dog?" asked the sutor, squeezing Alec's arm to
point the question.
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