Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him but Tod Lapraik! Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.
It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I büt to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we forgathered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no’ lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.
“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.
“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.
“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”
“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There canna be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.”
“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.
“A body!” says we, and we nane of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have broucht a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s heid at hame in the press bed.
We keept the twa boats closs for company, and crap in nearer hand. Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee-lane, and lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.
“It’s Tod,” says grandfaither, and passed the gless to Sandie.