The Loupin Buck[tramp] & the Chored[stolen] Tychie[shoe]
An ould
buck (tramp) wiz makin his wye through the Heilands. Times were tough
and it hid been a gye lang road athoot a hoose. He cursed aneth his
breath as the last o his worsted socks disappeared amongst the steens
on the road. There must’ve been fower miles o oo stickin tae the
tar. His beets hid gone lang syne and the bits o them lay scattered
twinty miles back the road. His now bare feet were freezin and ivvery
noo an then he’s stop at the side o the road and massage some life
back intae them. This wint on for a puckle mair miles afore he came
across a hedge. There he cut himsel a staave fae oot o the hedge and
used it as a walkin stick. He’d hop on one fit for a hunnder paces
then change fit. This wye the fit he keepit aff the road warmed up a
wee bitty then he’d change fit. In this wye he made his progress
throwe the Heilands. Early one mornin he’d gotten up fae the dry
ditch he’d been sleepin in fair frozen tae the marra o his beens.
There wiz nae wye he could lie in the caal ony langer. A hard freest
wiz on the ould road so it teen a fair minty tae get yokit. Hunner
yards, change fit, anither hunner yards change fit on an on this wint
for mile aifter mile. Eventually as the licht wiz getting stronger he
came upon a clachan (hamlet). Naebody wiz gyan aboot but he saw licht
comin fae een o the hooses. As he reached it o aa the things he saw a
richt bonny shinny shoe sittin at the chik o the door. Michty but it
lookit affa weel lookit aifter. Polished tae a high gloss it sat
there like an invitation fae the gods. He’d a quick raik tae see if
the ither yin wiz there but nithing could he find. A furtive glance
aboot him tae see if onybody wiz lookin he grabbed it up an put it
allo his ould army great-coat and teen tae his heels. He held gyan
till the clachan wiz oot o sicht and pechin like an bachled horsie he
sat doon at the side o the road an rubbit his feet because wi the
rinnin they were dirrlin like buggery. He teen the shoe oot fae aneth
his cwite and pit it on his richt fit and oh me it wiz that fine. A
thochty big kind but he’d be nottin that tae get the full eese o’t.
Onywye aifter he’d cametee some he stood up and slapped the shoe on
the grun. Michty but it wiz that fine tae feel gweed stout leather
under his frozen fit. Usin his stick he started tae hop alang the
road. Noo though he could hop for the guts o haaf a mile afore
changing ower tae the ither fit. It wiz jist as weel the shoe wiz
ower big for him so he could manage his left fit inside. He’d a
thocht tae himsel aboot the shoe. ‘Why wid it be there wiz only the
one richt shoe sittin at the chik o the door?’ Hop, hop, hop, hop.
He stopped hopin for a minty. ‘Maybe faaivver echt this yin hid
been cleanin the ither yin?’ He started hop, hop, hop again but
this time back the wye he’d came. Nearin the clachin he teen aff
the shoe and hid it in a ditch. He cairried on as afore hop, hop,
hop, for a puckle yards then change fit. hop, hop, hop. He steed ahin
a dyke lookin at the hoosie he’d chored the shoe fae. As far as he
could see naebody hid yet found the shoe wiz missin? Tryin tae meld
intae the steens o the dyke tae mak himsel near invisible his een
nearly crawled fae their sockets ower the heed o the dyke. He keepit
watch on the hoose like a sleekit futtritt wi a rubbitt. He hidna
lang tae wyte afore the balloon wint up. A big lad came tae the door
usin an oxter stave. He lookit aroon for a wee while obviously tae
find his shoe. That’s fan he started tae roar oot “Thome
bathtard’s thstole ma feckin thoe!” “Bathtard!” it roared and
began jumpin up an doon on its richt fit. The left leg hid but a
stump on it. The slaivers were fleein fae its mooth and it keepit
roarin “Bathtard!” ower and ower again. Some lichts in ither
hooses started tae come on at aa this soon so oor ould buck slithered
awa intae the haaf licht and made his wye back tae far he’d left
the shoe. He lay there for maist o the mornin and fin he thocht the
stoor hid settled he made his wye back tae the clachan. Leavin the
shoe it wiz hop, hop, hop, change fit hop, hop, hop till he neared
the clachan. He tied up his richt fit aneth his great-coat then it
wiz a left fit hop, hop. In this method he made his wye tae the hoose
he’d chored the shoe fae and knocked at the door. Aifter a wee
whilie he heard the slap o one fit on the flagsteens and the door
opened. An angry lookin man said “Fit are you theekin?” The ould
buck put on his maist pitiful demeanour and in a whinging tone said
wi an mock Irish accent. “Oh me kind zur would you be having an
ould left shoe for a fellow creature that’s fallen on hard toimes
beggarra?” It wiz that bad o an Irish accent but the big panny
didna notice. He grabbit the ould buck by the thrapple and roared
intae his jaws “Wiz it you that thstole ma thoe?” He shook the
ould buck like a loochy roarin aa the while. Aifter he’d spent his
anger he stood there wi his chest heavin. The ould buck wi perfect
timin managed a wheedlin reply “God bless us and save us from the
holy blue smokes but not a touch of your shoe did I take beggorra
beggorra murra murra murra!” As he crossed himsel tae lend emphasis
tae his complete honesty. Even rollin this een owards heaven and a
wee muttered prayer and an ‘amen’ thrown in for good measure. Tae
feenish it he pointed doon tae his bare left fit and simpered and put
on a petted lippy “Ma poor fitty’s frozen!” The big lad calmed
doon a bit jist shook his heed and wint back intae the hoose slammin
the door. The ould buck kent weel enough that the big lad wiz watchin
him so he left wi a hopeless hop, hop. He heard the door open ahin
him then heard the scrape o a shoe landin in front o him and the door
slammin again. He bent doon and picked it up and turnin back tae the
hoose he made the sign o the cross. He made his wye back tae the
ditch. Pittin baith shoes on he felt in heaven and even though one
shoe wiz highly polished and the ither yin jist the raw leather as it
hid came fae the souter he wiz aheedin for baith wid be that clatty
afore lang. So pittin a gweed fit aneth him oor ould buck wint on the
road tae the isles fusslin like a linty.
end
copyright © Patrick
Hutchison
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