Maclure's face kindled into mirth, and he turned in his chair.
“Ye 're sayin' naethin' o' the day when the burn wes settlin' aifter a spate, and ye cam tae me an' Sandy Baxter an' Netherton's brither Squinty, an' temptit us tae play the truant, threepin' ye hed seen the troot juist swarmin' in the holes.”
“A' tried John Baxter tae,” interrupted Drumsheugh, anxious for accuracy since they had begun the story, “though he didna come. But he wudna tell on's for a' that. Hillocks lat it oot at the sight o' the tawse. 'They 're up the Sheuchie aifter the troot,' he roared, an' the verra lassies cried 'clype' (tell tale) at him gaein' hame.”
“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin' ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud.
“Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied us a flytin' for playin' truant.”
“Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like the Sheuchie—a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this day—that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a' wes wi' her the laist nicht.”
“An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie; he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've never hed as gude a day again.”
“It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel doon ahint Ben Urtach?
“Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower truants that hae gane hame.
“You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an' we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the ither twa.”