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 foregaithered 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 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 none of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s at hame in the press bed. We keept the twa boats close 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 glass 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 grandfather, 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 judgment 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 foregaithered 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?”