"It was Andra Laidlaw. He
called me ill names, so I yokit on him and bate him too, but I got my
face gey sair bashed. The minister met me next day when I was a' blue
and yellow, and, says he, 'John Laverlaw, what have ye been daein'?
Ye're a bonny sicht for Christian een. How do ye think a face like
yours will look between a pair o' wings in the next warld?' I ken I'm no
bonny," added the explanatory Jock; "but ye canna expect a man to thole
siccan language as that."
Lewis laughed and, being engaged in clipping his third sheep, forgot the
delicacy of his task and let the shears slip. A very ugly little cut on
the animal's neck was the result.
"Oh, confound it!" cried the penitent amateur. "Look what I've done,
Yed. I'll have to rub in some of that stuff of yours and sew on a
bandage. The files will kill the poor thing if we leave the cut bare in
this infernal heat."
The old shepherd nodded, and pointed to where the remedies were kept.
Jock went for the box, which contained, besides the ointment, some rolls
of stout linen and a huge needle and twine. Lewis doctored the wound as
best he could, and then proceeded to lay on the cloth and sew it to the
fleece. The ewe grew restless with the heat and the pinching of the
cut, and Jock was given the task of holding her head.
Clearly Lewis was not meant by Providence for a tailor.
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