Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but.

There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi' a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner.

The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked.

We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shou'ther.

Nae mainner o' service! There he sat on his dowp, an' cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish.
"God be guid to us," says Tam Dale, "this is no canny!" He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel'.
"Is this you, Tam ?" says he.