The door was on the sneck that day, and me and my faither gaed straucht in.  Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but.  There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner.  The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked.  We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shou’ther.  Nae mainner o’ service!  There he sat on his dowp, an’ cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish.

“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny!”

He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.

“Is this you, Tam?” says he.  “Haith, man!  I’m blythe to see ye.  I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “it’s frae the stamach.”

Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to get the warding o’t, and by little and little cam to very ill words, and twined in anger.  I mind weel, that as my faither and me gaed hame again, he cam ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams.

“Dwam!” says he.  “I think folk hae brunt far dwams like yon.”

Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’.  It was remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing.  “Tam,” says he, “ye hae gotten the better o’me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.”  Which have since been thought remarkable expressions.  At last the time came for Tam Dale to take young solans.  This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’.  So there was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur it’s hieest and steighest.  Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the line and mindin’ for his signals.  But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the solans skirling and flying.  It was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young geese.  Mony’s the time I heard him tell of this experience, and aye the swat ran upon the man.

It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle solan, and the solan pyking at the line.  He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the creature’s habits.  He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.

“Shoo!” says Tam.  “Awa’, bird!  Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.

The solan keekit doun into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in the creature’s ee.  Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope.  But now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit.  There never was the solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand it’s employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.

There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart.  “This thing is nae bird,” thinks he.  His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed black about him.  “If I get a dwam here,” he thoucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam Dale.”  And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.