He meant the wooden bridge a few hundred yards below them, which, inaccessible from either side, was now very little above the level of the water.
"It's jist the riggin' o' some cottar's bit hoosie," answered Thomas. "What's come o' them that was aneath it, the Lord only kens. The water's jist liftit the roof bodily. There it gangs—throu' aneath the brig.—The brig's doon. It's no doon.—It's stan'in' yet.—But the puir fowk, Alec!—Eh, gin they warna preparet! Think o' that, Alec."
"I houp they wan oot," answered Alec.
"Houps are feckless things, Alec," returned Thomas, censoriously.
But the talk was turned into another channel by the appearance—a few ridges off—for they were standing in a field—of Truffey, who, with frantic efforts to get on, made but little speed, so deep did his crutch sink in the soaked earth. He had to pull it out at every step, and seemed mad in his foiled anxiety to reach them. He tried to shout, but nothing was heard beyond a crow like that of a hoarse chicken. Alec started off to meet him, but just as he reached him his crutch broke in the earth, and he fell and lay unable to speak a word. With slow and ponderous arrival, Thomas Crann came up.
"Annie Anderson!" panted out Truffey at length.
"What aboot her?" said both in alarm.
"Tibbie Dyster!" sobbed Truffey in reply.
"Here's Jeames Johnstone!" said Thomas; "he'll tell's a' aboot it."
He surmised the facts, but waited in painful expectation of assurance from the deacon, who came slipping and sliding along the wet ridges.