Gin I haena the rheumateese screwin' awa' atween my shoothers the nicht it wonna be their fau'ts; for as I cam' ower frae the ironmonger's there, I jist got a ba' i' the how o' my neck, 'at amaist sent me howkin' wi' my snoot i' the snaw.
And there it stack, and at this preceese moment it's rinnin' doon the sma' o' my back as gin 't war a burnie doon a hillside.

We maun hae mair constables!" "Hoot! toot! Charles.

Ye dinna want a constable to dry yer back.

Gang to the gudewife wi' 't," said Andrew, "she'll gie ye a dry sark.

Na, na.