We were sittin' enjoyin' a crack, an' lookin' oot at the windas, watchin' the bairns in their coaches, an' the birds fleein' aboot as happy as crickets, huntin' for wirms amon' the young girss.
"The Meadows look very pretty i' the noo," said Mester Blair. "The very birds enjoy the fresh green grass."
"They do that," put in Sandy. "It's a treat to see them, puir things. They are fond o' a bittie o' onything green. I tak' a bit dander oot the bunkers on a Sabbath mornin' whiles for a pucklie chuckin-wirth to Dickie, an' you wud really think the cratur kent. He gleys doon when I come in, as much as to say, 'C'way wi't, Sandy; I ken fine you have't in your pooch!'"
"Bawbie here winna believe me," continued Sandy, gien Mester Blair a wink, "but I've tell'd her twa-three times that when I've gane doon the yaird i' the winter-time wi' my auld greatcoat—it's gettin' very green noo, but it was a bit guid stuff aince in its day—the birds 'ill come fleein' doon an' sit on the palin' aside me, an' wheetle-wheetle awa' for a whilie. It's queer; but that's the effek the green appears to hae on them."
Mester Blair leuch till I thocht he wudda wranged himsel'. A richt hearty laucher he is. The lauch gaed a' ower him, an' you could hardly sen futher it was comin' oot o' his moo or his baits, there was that muckle o't.
Syne Sandy an' him got on to the crack aboot the tattie trade, an' you wudda thocht Sandy was genna tak' him in for a pairtner, he had that muckle to tell him.
"An' do you do much wi' the Americans?" said Mester Blair.
"I do a' their trade," said Sandy. "There's only three o' them buys tatties in Arbroath noo. The ither twa's gey queer that wey; they get a'thing preserved in tins, frae aboot London they tell me."
Mester Blair didna appear to understand Sandy, an' he speered, "Do you get cash again' Billy Lowden; or hoo d'ye get peyment?"
"If the bawbees is no' at the back o' the cairt, up goes the bawk, an' Donal' ca's awa," says Sandy. "Na, na, neen o' your Billy Lowden tick for me. I believe in the ready clink."