I stude up. I was richt on the edge of the Lowp.
I couldna tak my een aff the glessie daurk-green watter, and I kent that the whirlie was somewhaur ahint me, sae I didna daur step back-wards. I juist stude still wi my breist burstin, and my wame turnin heid ower heels, till I gey nearly dwamt awa.
I didna, though, I gaed doun on my knees, aye wi my can grippit ticht, and had a wee keek roun. The whirlie was ahint me, but faurer up the rock than I had thocht. I creept weill past it, and lookit up the bank.
My grandfaither wasna there. He hadna been watchin me efter aa.
I ran to the bank fute and cried oot, but wi the rummle ο the watter he didna hear me, and I stertit to greit. I grat gey sair for a lang while, and syne stertit to sclim up the bank, but I slippit and tummlet my can.
It hadna ae bash, but the mennans were gane. I gied my een a rub wi my guernsey sleeve and stertit to look for them. In the end I spied them, bedirten aa ower and hauf deid. I mindit then that I hadna filled my can wi watter.
Whan they were soumin again they syne cam roun, though ane ο them lay for a while wi its belly up, and I thocht it wad dee. Whan it didna I felt hairtent again, and began to wish I could catch anither ten.
I had nae glass jaur.
I fand a wee hole in the rock and pat the mennans in, and syne gaed to the whirlie. It was tuim, for I hadna keepit quait, but I tried my can in the runnel and fand a bit it wad fit. I wasna dune yet.
I tied my string to the can haunle and sat doun again to wait.
I had a waur job this time to keep mysell in haund, tryin no to think ο the horrid end I wad hae come to gin I had tummlet ower the edge ο the Lowp, but I maun hae managed gey weill, for I didna seem to hae been sittin for a meenit whan my grandfaither’s birrell gaed.
It was time to gang hame. I could haurdly believe it.
I gaed forrit to meet him as he cam doun the bank.
‘Hou mony mennans hae ye catchit?’
‘Juist twa. I broke my jaur.’
‘Dear me. Whaur’s the can?’
‘It’s ower by the runnel. I hae tied my string to the haunle ο it.’
‘And whaur are the twa mennans?’
‘In a wee hole.’
‘Quait, then, and we’ll hae ae mair try. It’s time to gang hame.’
He sat doun and cut himsell a braidth ο thick black, and whan his pipe was gaun and the reik risin oot ο it I gat richt back into fettle. I sat as still as daith, wishin his pipe had been cleaner, for it gied a gey gurgle at ilka puff, and I was feart it wad frichten the mennans. But I didna daur say ocht.
Aa at ance, withoot warning, he lowpit for the runnel wi the can. I lowpit tae.
The can was useless. The mennans saw it and gaed back ben the whirlie. They juist wadna try to win oot.
‘Fin a stane,’ said my grandfaither.
I ran to the fute ο the bank and fand a stane.
‘Staun ower the whirlie and pitch it in hard.’
I lat flee wi aa my strength. The stane hit the watter wi a plunk. The mennans scattert and shot for the runnel. My grandfaither liftit the can.
Whan my braith cam back I gaed ower aside him.
‘Hou mony hae we gotten?’
He was doun on his hunkers wi his heid ower the can.
‘I canna coont. They winna bide still.’
My hairt gied a lowp. Ther wad shairly be a dizzen this time. But I was wrang.
‘Eight,’ he said.
I had a look mysell. I coontit them three times. There were eicht and nae mair.
‘Come on, then. Fin the ither twa and we’ll awa hame.’
I was fair dumfounert.
‘But I hae juist ten, grandfaither. I need anither twa still.’
‘Na na, we’re late. Yer grannie’ll be thinkin ye’re drount.’
‘But I need a dizzen.’
‘What dae ye want a dizzen for?’
‘For Tam Baxter’s penny.’
‘Dinna fash aboot Tam Baxter. I’ll gie ye a penny mysell.’
‘But I want to make my ain penny.’
‘Na, na.’
‘They’ll juist be wastit.’
‘We’ll gie them to the cats. Whaur did ye put the first twa?’
I took him ower to the wee hole. They were there still. He pat them in the can wi the ithers and made for the bank.
‘I’ll tak the mennans up first.’
He gaed awa up and left me. Whan he cam doun again I had stertit to greit.
‘Come on, son. I’ll gie ye tippence.’
But it didna comfort me. I had wantit sae hard to mak a penny ο my ain, and I juist needit twa mennans mair. It was past tholin.
Whan we cam to the waal I was begrutten aa ower. He stude for a while.
‘Haud on, son. Ye’ll hae yer dizzen yet.’
He took the tinnie that hung frae the waal spoot. It was there for the drouthie warkers.
‘We’ll put the mennans in this.’
He had a gey job, for it didna leave them muckle watter, but he managed.
‘Bide here and haud on to it. Keep ae haund ower the top or they’ll lowp oot.’
He left me wi the tinnie and took the can through the hedge. I jaloused at ance what he was efter, and my hairt stertit to thump again, but there was nae bark frae Tam’s dug. It maun hae been tied at his back door.
My grandfaither cam back.
‘Here ye are, then. Put thae anes back.’
I lookit in the can. There ware twa in it. I tuimed in the ithers.
‘That’s yer dizzen nou. Ye can tak them ower to Tam the morn.’
I kent I couldna face Tam the morn.
‘Daes he no coont his mennans, grandfaither?’
‘Na na, he has ower mony for that.’
‘But it’s stealin.’
‘Dinna fash aboot that. Tam’s laddies whiles guddle oor troot.’
It was the truith, and they didna aye put it back, but still I kent I couldna face him.
We came to the waal yett.
‘Grandfaither?’
‘Ay?’
‘I think we’ll juist gie them to the cats efter aa.’
‘What wey that?’
‘I’m feart. I couldna face Tam Baxter.’
‘Havers.’
‘I couldna, grandfaither.’