But, as I was sayin', this was a' leadin' up to something. Sandy cudna sit still at nicht, an' he sang an' smokit till, atween bein' deaved an' scumfished, I was nearhand seek. Efter readin' oor chapter, I gaed awa' to my bed. I lookit up twa-three times an' saw Sandy sittin' afore the fire, twirlin' his thooms, an' gien a bit whistle noo an' than. Efter a while he put oot the gas, an' syne began to tak' aff his claes, an' wide aboot amon' the furniture as uswal. He got intil his bed efter a quarter o' an oor's miscellaneous scramblin', an' was sune snorin' like a dragoon.
When I got atower i' the mornin', what is there sittin' on my chair but a great muckle shortie in a braw box, wi' a Christmas caird on the tap o't. When I opened the box here's ane o' my stockin's lyin' on the tap o' a great big cake, juist like this:—
To
B. BOWDEN
from a
F IEND
I lookit anower at Sandy, an' here's him lyin' wi' a look on his face like's he was wantin' on the Parochial Buird.
"Eh, Sandy! What a man you are!" I says, says I; for, mind you, I was a richt prood woman on Munanday mornin'.
"It was Sandy Claws, 'oman," says he, lauchin'. "He cudna get the box into your stockin', so he juist put your stockin' into the box. But it's juist sax an' half a dizzen, I suppose."
I hude up the cake to the licht, an' read oot the braw white sugar letters—"'To B. Bowden from a Fiend.' But wha's the fiend, Sandy?" says I, I says.
"Fiend!" roared Sandy, jumpin' ooten his bed. "Lat's see't."
He glowered at the cake like's he was tryin' to mismerise somebody; an' then he says, "See a haud o' my troosers there, Bawbie. I'll go doon an' pet that baker through his mixin' machine. I'll lat him see what kind o' a fiend I am. I'll fiend him."
"Hover a blink, Sandy," says I. "Here's ane o' the letters stickin' to my stokin'." Shure eneuch, here was a great big "R" stickin' to the ribs o' my stockin'; so I juist took a lickie glue an' stak her on the cake, an' made it read a' richt. Sandy was rale pleased when he saw me so big aboot my cake; an' he's been trailin' in aboot a' the neepers to see "the wife's cake," as he ca's't. An' he stands wi' his thooms i' the oxter holes o' his weyscot, an' lauchs, an' says, "Tyuch; naething ava; no wirth speakin' aboot," when I tell them hoo big I am aboot it.