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Welsh, James C.

"The Underworld The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner"

He
bounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at his
approach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loud
protesting voice, seemed to scream: "'way back! 'way back! 'way back!"
and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to earth
a few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as he
momentarily stood to recover from his fright.
The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, the
bleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweat
streamed down his body, as he swung along the moor.
At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and,
entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky.
"It's kind o' cauld the day," the landlady said in an affable way, as he
stepped into the bar.
"Warm enough where I have been," he replied bluntly. "Gie's something to
drink in whusky!"
"So it wad seem," she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as he
wiped it with a colored handkerchief.
"You've surely been gey hard ca'd wherever you hae been," and there was
a note of curiosity in her voice.
"I want a drink," he broke in abruptly, "an' it doesna matter a damn to
you whether I hae been hard ca'd or no'.


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