It comes doon verra
laich in some places, and gangs up heich again in ithers, but nae
sign o' an en' till 't."
"Is there ony soon' o' watter intill 't?" asked Malcolm.
"Na, nane at ever I hard. But I'll tell ye what I hae hard: I hae
hard the flails gaein' thud, thud, abune my heid."
"Hoot toot, Phemy!" said Malcolm; "we're a guid mile an' a half frae
the nearest ferm toon, an' that I reckon, 'll be the Hoose ferm."
"I canna help that," persisted Phemy. "Gien 't wasna the flails,
whiles ane, an' whiles twa, I dinna ken what it cud hae been. Hoo
far it was I canna say, for it's ill measurin' i' the dark, or wi'
naething but a bowat (lantern) i' yer han'; but gien ye ca'd it
mair, I wadna won'er."
"It's a michty howkin!" said Malcolm; "but for a' that it wadna
haud ye frae the grip o' thae scoonrels: wharever ye ran they cud
rin efter ye."
"I think we cud sort them," said Phemy. "There's ae place, a guid
bit farrer in, whaur the rufe comes doon to the flure, leavin' jist
ae sma' hole to creep throu': it wad be fine to hae a gey muckle
stane handy, jist to row (roll) athort it, an' gar't luik as gien
't was the en' o' a'thing. But the hole's sae sma' at the laird
has ill gettin' his puir hack throu' 't."
"I couldna help won'erin' hoo he wan throu' at the tap there," said
Malcolm.
At this the laird laughed almost merrily, and rising, took Malcolm
by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him feel a rough
groove in the wall of the rocky strait: into this hollow he laid
his hump, and so slid sideways through.
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