Andrew Marshall had waited at the end of the village, knowing that the
creeling was to take place, and that he would get the men on their way
from the pit. Presently old Lauder, who had taken a short cut across the
moor, came up, and Andrew accosted him.

"Will ye wait here, Jamie, so that I can try an' get a meetin' held wi'
the rest o' the men when they come alang?"

"I will that, Andra," replied Jamie, taking the lighted lamp from his
head, and sitting down at the corner on his "hunkers." "They're a'
comin' hame anyway, for we're creelin' Tam Donaldson."

Soon the procession appeared, the hutch jolting along the rough street,
the men shouting and singing as they came. The village had turned out to
see the fun. Andrew and Jamie found themselves in the midst of a crowd
of women and children, as the foremost of the men came to a halt at the
corner.

Andrew quietly stepped out and addressed the men, asking them if they
would wait a few minutes--as they were idle in any case--to have a
meeting. All were agreed.

"Here's Sanny Robertson," said Tam Tate, peering into the breaking
light, "he'll no' likely wait, but we'll see what he says aboot it," and
all waited in silence until Robertson approached. He seemed to guess
what was in the air, and hurriedly tried to pass on, but Andrew stepped
out with the usual question.

"No," he replied uneasily, "I'll ha'e no part in ony mair strife. Folk