"Preserve's a'," says I, heich oot, "whaur are ye, Sandy? Are ye there? What's come ower ye? Are ye deid?"
"I'm here, Bawbie," says a shiverin' voice in aneth the bed. "I'm here, Bawbie. Ye'll hear Gabriel's tuter juist i' the noo. O, Bawbie, I've been a nesty footer o' a man, an' ill-gettit scoot a' my days. I wiss I cud juist get hauds o' the Bible on the drawers-heid, Bawbie. Did ye hear the mountins an' the rocks beginnin' to fa'?"
"Come awa' 'oot ablo there, Sandy," I says, says I, "an' no' get your death o' cauld, an' be gaen aboot deavin fowk wi' you an' your reums. The mountins an' rocks is the brick an' lum-cans aff Mistress Mollison's hoose, I'm thinkin'." An' I cudna help addin'—"It's ower late to be thinkin' aboot startin' to the Bible efter Gabriel's begun to blaw his tuter, Sandy. Come awa' to your bed!"
Sandy got himsel' squeezed up atween the bed an' the wa'; an' at ilky hooch an whirr 'at the wind gae he wheenged an' groaned like's he was terriple ill wi' his inside; an' aye he was sayin', "I've been a lazy gaen-aboot vegabon', an' ill-hertit vague. O dear, Bawbie, what'll we do?"
I cam' to mysel' efter a whilie, an' raise an' tried the gas, an' it lichtit a' richt. The wind was tearin' an' rivin' at the ruif at this time something terriple. "We'll go doon the stair, Sandy," says I; an' I made for the door.
"For ony sake, Bawbie," roared Sandy oot o' the bed, "wait till I get on my breeks. If ye lave me, I'll g'wa' in a fit—as shore's ocht."
We got doon the stair an' I lichtit the fire an' got the kettle to the boil, an' we sat an' harkined to the wind skreechin' doon the lum, an' groanin' an' wailin' amon' the trees ower the road, an' soochin' roond aboot the washin'-hoose. I raley never heard the marrow o't. The nicht o' the fa'a'in' o' the Tay Brig was but the blawin' oot o' a can'le aside it. I' the middle o' an awfu' sooch there was a fearfu' reeshil at oor door, an' Sandy fair jamp aff his chair wi' the start.
"A'ye in, Sandy?" cried Dauvid Kenawee, in a nervish kind o' a voice.
I awa' an' opened the door, an' here was Dauvid an' Mistress Kenawee—Dauvid wi' his pints wallopin' amon' his feet, an' his weyscot lowse, an' Mistress Kenawee juist wi' her short-goon an' a shallie on.
"This is shurely the end o' the world comin'," said Mistress Kenawee, near greetin'. "O dear me, I think something's genna come ower me."