"Come doon oot o' that this meenit, Jock Gordon, ye gomeral!"
cried Meg, shaking her fist at the uncouth shape twisting and
singing against the sunset sky like one demented.

The song stopped, and Jock Gordon slowly turned his head in their
direction. All were looking towards him, except Ebie Farrish, the
new ploughman, who was wondering what Jess Kissock would do if he
put his arm around her waist.

"What said ye?" Jock asked from his perch on the top of the peat-
stack.

"Hae ye fetched in the peats an' the water, as I bade ye?" asked
Meg, with great asperity in her voice. "D'ye think that ye'll win
aff ony the easier in the hinnerend, by sittin' up there like yin
o' his ain bairns, takkin' the deil's name in vain?"

"Gin ye dinna tak' tent to [care of] yersel', Meg Kissock,"
retorted Jock, "wi' yer eternal yammer o' 'Peats, Jock Gordon, an'
'Water, Jock Gordon,' ye'll maybes find yersel' whaur Jock
Gordon'll no be there to serve ye; but the Ill Auld Boy'll keep ye
in routh o' peats, never ye fret, Meg Kissock, wi' that reed-heed
[red head] o' yours to set them a-lunt [on fire]. Faith an' ye may
cry 'Water! water!' till ye crack yer jaws, but nae Jock Gordon
there--na, na--nae Jock Gordon there. Jock kens better."

But at this moment there was a prolonged rumble, and the whole
party sitting by the gable end (the "gavel," as it was locally
expressed) rose to their feet from tub and hag-clog and milking-
stool. There had been a great land-slip. The whole side of the