“Are ye a’ richt there, Jamie?” This to the sergeant.
“A’ richt, sir,” Jamie would reply.
“Weel, richt fut foremaist. Quick mairch! awa’ ye gang.”
And away they went, filing off here and there at the corners of streets to take up their several beats.
But the bad boy students were the bane of those poor fellows’ lives. There was no saying when one or two would turn up.
They would see lamp after lamp extinguished right ahead of them, sometimes a whole street placed in darkness, and yet be powerless to give chase to the light-footed lads.
Or they would hear sounds like shots fired in the quiet streets, bang! bang! bang! here and there, and know that metal knockers were being broken, but knowing also that they might as well try to catch a will-o’-the-wisp as one of the perpetrators.
It must be admitted that playing such practical jokes as these is poor fun, and the only thing to be said for the students is, that they never paused to think.
. . . . . .
Sandie still stuck to his little pupil, though he confessed more than once to Willie that the work was irksome in the extreme.