Page:Martha Spreull by Zachary Fleming.pdf/67

Rh I seized the bell-handles on each side o’ the door and pulled them wi’ a vigour that alarmed even mysel’ when I heard the racket they made. In less time than I tak’ to write this doon, the doors were opened, an’ there, i’ the comer, wi’ the gaslicht suddenly turned upon him, wis my ain bursar—the lad Willie Warstle that I had left athame reading Caesar’s Commentaries, shakin’ frae head to fit like the leaf o’ a tree.

“Come here, ye young scape-grace,” says I, when I recovered my senses. “What ill-set trick is this the de’il has putten into yer head?”

He cam oot wi’ a face as white as a cloot, and tried to fa’ on my neck.

“Na, na,” quoth I, layin’ aboot his lugs till my neives were sair, “ I ’ll gar ye smairt weel for this my gentleman.” “ Honest folk,” quoth I, turning to the onlookers, “I ask yer pardon for causing ye sic disturbance; but the laddie played a trick on me, and as I thocht he wis a stranger—maybe a keelie — I wanted yer help to hand him ower to justice. The offender belangs to me;—sae I ’ll chasteese him mysel’.” An’ to show there wis truth in what I wis sayin’, I fell on him again.

Weel, before we got hame he apologeesed richt humbly, an said he wud never dae the like again.

“ But what did ye mean by daein’ sic a doonricht wicked thing ? ” quoth I.

“ Oh,” says he, “ I thoeht ye were a young lass.”

“ Waur an’ waur,” quoth I.

The remark set me a thinkin’. The idea o’ a mere callant like Willie Warstle sittin’ in a cauld close, in a quiet street, for hours, wi’ a string laid oot on the fitpaith, for the express purpose o’ catchin’ a young lass by the leg, showed a depth o’ depravity that wis unco sad to think o’ in ane sae