by W. W. Jacobs
XII.
A DREADFUL DISASTER IN THE GARRET.
I'm shure I needna trauchle to haud in aboot the bawbees! That man o'mine wud ramsh an' hamsh an' fling awa' mair than I cud save although Iwas a millionaire. Nae farrer gane than lest nicht I heard someongaens up the stair. What's he up till noo? thinks I to mysel'. Yeken our garret? It's a anod bit roomie, an' we sleep up there i' thesimmer nichts, for the doonstair room gets that het an' seekrif, Icanna fa' ower ava sometimes. So I have the garret made rale snod an'cosie. There's a fine fixed-in bed, an' I have the room chairs I gotwhen my Auntie Leeb de'ed, wi' a tidie or twa ower them, an' anauld-fashioned roond tablie 'at I bocht at a rowp--ane o' thae anesthat cowps up an' sets back to the wa' when you're no' needn't. AuntieLeeb left me her big lookin' gless too. Ye mind she had a shoostershopie at the fit o' Collie Park, an' she had a big lookin' gless forher customers seeing hoo their frocks fitted. Ay weel than, I set thegless juist up again' the wa' at the end o' the garret, firnent thefireplace an' it made the roomie real cantie an' cheerie lookin'.
When I heard the din Sandy was makin', I goes my wa's up the stair onmy tiptaes. It was juist upo' the stroke o' nine o'clock, an' I wasjuist noo dune shuttin' the shop. The door was aff the snib; an', keepme, when I lookit in, here's Sandy wi' an Oddfella's kilt an' a bushbieon, an' his ilky-day's claes lyin' in a pozel on the table. I kent thekilt whenever I saw't; it was the ane Dauvit Kenawee wears in theOddfellas' processions. Sandy was berfit, an', I'm shure, if ye'd seenhim! Haud your tongue! Ye never saw sic a picture. I suppose he'dtaen aff his buits no' to mak' a noise.
Ay weel, here he was wi' a bawbee can'le stuck up again' the boddom o'the lookin'-gless, an' him maleengerin' aboot i' the flure afore't, wi'the shaft o' the heather bissam in his hand, whiskin't roond his lugs,progin' aboot wi't, an' lowpin' here an' there like a hen on a hetgirdle. He croonshed doon, an' jookit frae side to side, an' then jampstraucht up an' lut flee at something wi' the bissam shaft. Syne hestack the end o' the stick i' the flure, an' bored an' grunted like'she was rammin't through a pavemint steen.
"That's anither settle't," says he, pullin' up his stick; an' gie'n't adicht wi' the tails o' his kilt; syne makin' a kick at something wi'his berfit fit--"Let us do or die," says he; "Scots wha hae; Wallacean' Bruce for ever; doon wi' every bloomin' Englisher; rip them up;koo-heel!" Then he whiskit half-roond aboot, an' lut flee at a seckieo' caff I had sittin' in a corner. "Come on, Mick Duff; every deevilo' ye! Change your slaverie," he says akinda heich oot, an' then helut yark at the seek again an' missed, an' made a muckle hole i' theplester.
He stoppit an' harkin't for fear I'd heard the stishie he was makin'.I never lut dab, but keepit juist as quiet's pussy.
"Auch, she's i' the shop," he says heich oot; an' then he floo back an'forrit, fencin' an' jookin', an glowerin' at himsel' i' thelookin'-gless; an' girnin' his teeth like a whitterit. I raley thochtthe man had gane sketch. He made a sweech wi' the bissam shaft 'atgarred the licht o' the can'le waggle frae side to side. Syne hestraughtened himsel' up afore the gless, an', touchin' the ruif wi thepoint o' his stick, he says, "Viktory, viktory! Bannockburn is wun.Hooreh! Hooreh!"
Juist at this meenit there was a rare like's fifty thunderbolts hadburst in Kowper Collie's auld-iron yaird. You never heard sic a soond.It was like the crack o' a hunder cannon; an' in an instant a' wasdark, an' there was a reeshil o' broken bottles that garred me thinkthere had been an earthquake i' the back shop. Doon the stair I floo;but, afore I was half-roads doon, Sandy jamp clean on my back--kilt,bushbie, an' a'thegither. Doon I gaed like a rickel o' auld beans, an'Sandy ower the tap o' me, heels-ower-gowrie. When I cam' to mysel',here's Sandy lyin' streekit oot on his face i' the middle o' a box o'Hielant eggs that I'd juist noo opened. The strap o' the bushbie wasroond his thrapple, an' was juist aboot stranglin' him, when I cut itwi' the ham knife. Then he akinda half-turned roond, an' says he, "OBawbie! I'm deid. There's a bomshall gane throo my backbeen."
"Rise up," says I, "there's mair than you deid. There's twal' orfifteen dizzen o' gude eggs bruist to bits. Whatever 'ill I do?" Heraise up; an' if ye'd only seen the sicht! It's as fac's ocht, it waseneuch to fleg the French. Never will I forget it while I draw breath.He lookit like some berfit tinkler wife that had been too, an' hadt'a'in, ower the heid, intil a barrel o' yellow oker; an' stickin' onhis weyst there was ane o' my winda tickets--"Just in To-Day."
"O, Bawbie!" he wheenged, "gae up the stair an' see if the ruif's ayeon. I think somebody's been hoddin' dianamite in oor garret."
"When I gaed up the stair wi' a licht, what did I see but my AuntieLeeb's braw lookin'-gless a' to flinders i' the flure? The licht o'the can'le had burned up against it, an' riven't a' to pieces. When Iturned roond, here's Sandy stappin' ooten his kilt, an' gaen awa' topet on his troosers.
"Alick Bowden," says I--an' my very hert was greit--"Alick Bowden"--Iaye ca' him Alick when I'm angry--"this maun be the end o't. I cannathole nae mair."'
"For ony sake, Bawbie," he brook in, "dinna say naething the nicht, orI'll pushon or droon mysel'. I wiss I had been smored amo' thae eggs";an' doon the stair he gaed, wi' his breeks in his oxter.
I juist had to g'wa' to my bed an' lat a'thing aleen, an' I ac'uallygrat mysel' ower asleep. I didna ken o' Sandy comin' till his bed ava;an' when I raise i' the mornin' a' thing was cleared awa', an' thegarret an' backshop a' sweepit an' in order, an' Sandy was busy i' theyaird hackin' sticks, an' whistlin' "Hey, Jockie Mickdonal'," juist'sas gin naethin' had happened. He's been stickin' in like a hatter eversin' syne, an' has a'thing as neat's ninepence; so I canna say a singlewird. But is't no raley something terriple?
