Wattie Scott is his name." None of us had heard of it then; but it was not long before it was the best known name in Scotland, and many a time we thought of how he speered his way of us on the night of the terror.
But early in the morning we had our minds set at ease.

It was grey and cold, and my mother had gone up to the house to make a pot of tea for us, when there came a gig down the road with Dr.Horscroft of Ayton in it and his son Jim.

The collar of the doctor's brown coat came over his ears, and he looked in a deadly black humour; for Jim, who was but fifteen years of age, had trooped off to Berwick at the first alarm with his father's new fowling piece.

All night his dad had chased him, and now there he was, a prisoner, with the barrel of the stolen gun sticking out from behind the seat.

He looked as sulky as his father, with his hands thrust into his side-pockets, his brows drawn down, and his lower lip thrusting out.
"It's all a lie!" shouted the doctor as he passed.