"Ay, an' I hope we'll mak' sure work that they sleep in for twa-three mornin's."
"I'll tell ye what," said old Lauder, "let us get a few weemin' and weans thegither, an' we'll gang doon to the pit an' wait on them comin' up frae their shift. The bairns can get tin cans an' a stane for a drumstick, an' we'll ha'e a loonie band. We can sing twa or three o' thae blackleg sangs o' Tam Donaldson's, an' play them hame."
"That's the plan, Jamie," replied Tam, who had suddenly seen himself immortalized through his parodies of certain popular songs. "Let us get as mony women an' callans as possible, and we can mak' a damn'd guid turnout. We'll sing like linties, an' drum like thunder, an' the blacklegs'll feel as if they were goin' through Purgatory to the tune o':"
Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie,
Tattie Wullie Shaw,
Where's the sense o' workin', Wullie?—
Faith, ye're lookin' braw.
or
Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
Peter, man, I say,
Ye've been workin', ye've been workin',
Ye've been workin' the day.
Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
If ye work ony mair,
Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
Your heart will be sair.
With little difficulty a band of men, women and children was organized and proceeded to the pit to await the coming up of the culprits. Hour after hour they waited patiently, determined not to miss them, and the time was spent in light jesting and singing ribald songs.
"I wadna' like if my faither was a blackleg," observed Mysie Maitland to the girl next her.
"No, nor me, either!" quickly agreed the other. "It wad be awfu' to hear folk cryin' 'Blackleg' after yir faither, wadna' it, Mysie?"
"Ay," was the reply. "I wadna' like it."