Catriona, Robert Louis Stevenson [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

saw him nae mair. And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s held drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up he sat.

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man⁠—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be quiet. But naething, would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for down again.

“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”

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 but 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 forgaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid niether, or ye could spier 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 cannae 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 held 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.

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.

“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgments surely, and be damned to it!” says he.

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! “But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgaithered wi’ before,” says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,” says he, “and what would be your way of it?”

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ. My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid draps, bein’ mair deidly again bogles. And then the ae boat set aff for North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the braeside.

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But there would be folk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, crieshy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time I have askit mysel’, why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing a’ they hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they have a grand time here of it, whatever!⁠—and the Lord forgie us!

Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-held upon the