gently, the pirate put out to the rock, saying, "I'll sink that bell
and plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." So he cut the rope, and down
went the bell "with a gurgling sound; the bubbles rose and burst
around," etc. Then "Ralph the Rover sailed away; he scoured the seas
for many a day; and now, grown rich with plundered store, he steers
his course for Scotland's shore." Then came a terrible storm with
cloud darkness and night darkness and high roaring waves, "Now where
we are," cried the pirate, "I cannot tell, but I wish I could hear the
Inchcape bell." And the story goes on to tell how the wretched rover
"tore his hair," and "curst himself in his despair," when "with a
shivering shock" the stout ship struck on the Inchcape Rock, and went
down with Ralph and his plunder beside the good priest's bell. The
story appealed to our love of kind deeds and of wildness and fair
play.

A lot of terrifying experiences connected with these first schooldays
grew out of crimes committed by the keeper of a low lodging-house in
Edinburgh, who allowed poor homeless wretches to sleep on benches or
the floor for a penny or so a night, and, when kind Death came to
their relief, sold the bodies for dissection to Dr. Hare of the
medical school. None of us children ever heard anything like the
original story. The servant girls told us that "Dandy Doctors," clad
in long black cloaks and supplied with a store of sticking-plaster of
wondrous adhesiveness, prowled at night about the country lanes and
even the town streets, watching for children to choke and sell. The
Dandy Doctor's business method, as the servants explained it, was with
lightning quickness to clap a sticking-plaster on the face of a
scholar, covering mouth and nose, preventing breathing or crying for
help, then pop us under his long black cloak and carry us to Edinburgh
to be sold and sliced into small pieces for folk to learn how we were