He held it out to her, but she did not move her hand towards it.
“Whaur got ye ’t?” she asked, her eyes growing larger as she looked.
“What gars ye speir, grannie?” he returned, with assumed indifference.
“I dinna believe there was anither like the ane that’s like,” she replied.
“In which case,” rejoined Cosmo, “it maun be the same. Ken ye onything aboot it?”
“Ay; an’ sae du ye, or ye hae less sense nor I wad hae mintit o’ a Warlock. That stick’s no a stick like ither sticks, an’ I wuss I was nearer hame.”
“Ye dinna mean, grannie, there’s onything no canny aboot the stick?” said Cosmo.
“I wadna like to think him near me ’at aucht it,” she replied.
“Wha aucht it, grannie?”
“Rive ’t a’ to bits, laddie; there’s something by ordnar aboot it. The auld captain made o’ ’t as gien it had been his graven image. That was his stick ye hae i’ yer han’, whaurever ye got it; an’ it was seldom oot o’ his frae mornin’ till nicht. Some wad hae ’t he tuik it til ’s bed wi’ him. I kenna aboot that; but gien by ony accident he set it oot frae ’atween his knees, it was never oot o’ the sicht o’ his e’en. I hae seen him mysel’, missin’ ’t like, luik up o’ a suddent as gien his sowl hed been requiret o’ ’im, an’ grip at it as gien it hed been his proadigal son come hame oonexpeckit.”