"It's gospel what the doctor says, Mr. Dishart," he declared. "Me and my brither Sandy was baith ill, and in the same bed, and the doctor had hopes o' Sandy, but nane o' me. Ay, weel, when I heard that, I thocht I micht as weel die on the ice as in my bed, so I up and on wi' my claethes. Sandy was mad at me, for he was no curler, and he says, 'Jo Strachan, if you gang to Rashie-bog you'll assuredly be brocht hame a corp.' I didna heed him, though, and off I gaed." "And I see you did not die," said Gavin. "Not me," answered the fish cadger, with a grin. "Na, but the joke o't is, it was Sandy that died." "Not the joke, Jo," corrected the doctor, "the moral." "Ay, the moral; I'm aye forgetting the word." McQueen, enjoying Gavin's discomfiture, turned Lightning down the Rashie-bog road, which would be impassable as soon as the thaw came. In summer Rashie-bog is several fields in which a cart does not sink unless it stands still, but in winter it is a loch with here and there a spring where dead men are said to lie, There are no rushes at its east end, and here the dog-cart drew up near the curlers, a crowd of men dancing, screaming, shaking their fists and sweeping, while half a hundred onlookers got in their way, gesticulating and advising. "Hold me tight," the doctor whispered to Gavin, "or I'll be leaving you to drive Nanny to the poorhouse by yourself." He had no sooner said this than he tried to jump out of the trap. "You donnert fule, John Robbie," he shouted to a player, "soop her up, man, soop her up; no, no, dinna, dinna; leave her alane. Bailie, leave her alane, you blazing idiot. Mr. Dishart, let me go; what do you mean, sir, by hanging on to my coat tails? Dang it all, Duthie's winning. He has it, he has it!" "You're to play, doctor?" some cried, running to the dog-cart. "We hae missed you sair." "Jeames, I--I--. No, I daurna." "Then we get our licks. I never saw the minister in sic form. We can do nothing against him." "Then," cried McQueen, "I'll play. Come what will, I'll play. Let go my tails, Mr. Dishart, or I'll cut them off. Duty? Fiddlesticks!" "Shame on you, sir," said Gavin; "yes, and on you others who would entice him from his duty." "Shame!" the doctor cried. "Look at Mr. Duthie. Is he ashamed? And yet that man has been reproving me for a twelvemonths because I've refused to become one of his elders. Duthie," he shouted," think shame of yourself for curling this day." Mr. Duthie had carefully turned his back to the trap, for Gavin's presence in it annoyed him. We seldom care to be reminded of our duty by seeing another do it. Now, however, he advanced to the dog-cart, taking the far side of Gavin. "Put on your coat, Mr. Duthie," said the doctor, "and come with me to Nanny Webster's. You promised." Mr. Duthie looked quizzically at Gavin, and then at the sky. "The thaw may come at any moment," he said. "I think the frost is to hold," said Gavin.