"Oh, I see," said Mester Blair. "You get cash at the ship's side. That is the safe plan."
"As you say," said Sandy, "that's exakly Bandy Wobster's wey o' pettin't. I believe in the bawbees afore the tatties leave the back door o' the cairt. Short accounts mak' lang freends."
"Do you do onything wi' the Continent ava?" said Meg's man.
"I travel a' ower the toon," said Sandy, "frae Tootles Nook to Culloden, an' frae the Skemels to Cairnie Toll. It disna maitter a doakan to me wha I sell till. Seven pund to the half-steen, an' cash doon—thae's my principles; the same price, and the game turn o' the bawk, to gentle and simple. When the champions are gude I can manish twa load i' the day fine, an' if the disease keeps oot amon' them, they pey no that ill."
Meg's man gey a kind o' a whistle in laich, an' I saw fine syne whaur he had tint himsel'. Meg had tell'd him Sandy was a tattie merchant, an' he'd been thinkin' Sandy had a big wey o' doin', an' sell'd tatties in shiploads an' so on. I saw the whole thing in a blink, but never lut wink, an' Sandy was fient a hair the better or the waur o' Meg's man's mistak'.
We got a grand denner—something specific. "This is a kind o' a haiver o' buff, Mistress Blair," said Sandy, when we got set doon; but I gae him a kick throo ablo the table that garred him tak' his tongue atween his teeth.
I needna tell you aboot a' we got to eat; Sandy ate that hearty that he gaed oot to the simmer-seat efter, an' cud hardly steer oot o' the bit for half an 'oor. Really ilky thing was better than anither, an' we feenished up wi' ice-cream. Sandy took a gullar o't afore he kent, an' I think he thocht he was brunt, for he nippit up the water bottle, an' took a sweech o' cauld watter, an' then gae a pech like's he'd come ooten a fit. He was a' richt efter a whilie, but the cratur had over-eaten himsel', an' he was gey uneasy a' efternune.
Efter we got oor tea, Meg got the bairns a' beddit, an' then her an' her man, an' me an' Sandy set aff for the theater. It was a terriple grand theater, wi' as muckle gold hingin' roond aboot as wud mak' a' the puir fowk in Arbroath millionaires. We got a grand seat, an' a'thing gaed richt till near the feenish.
Mester Blair had what they ca' an opera gless wi' him, an' he handed it to me to look throo. Sandy in wi' his hand intil his greatcoat pooch, an' oot wi' his spygless, a great lang thing' like a barber's pole, that he wan at a raffle at the Whin Inn. There was a chappie deein' on the stage. He'd stuck himsel' wi' his soord, because a lassie wudna mairry him, an' he was juist lyin' tellin' a' the fowk aboot crooil weemin, an' peace in the grave, an' a'thing, when Sandy cockit up his spygless to hae a glower at him afore he gae his henmist gasp.
I saw the chappie gien a kind o' a fear'd-like start, syne he sprang till his feet an' roared, "Pileece, pileece! there's an anarkist an' a feenyin's bom in the theater," an' took till his heels aff the stage.