Then they climbed down and proceeded to complete their ploy.  Jamie Wardhaugh proposed that they should tie the yellow flag to the pig’s tail in derision of the Old Tory and his Toryism.  It was indeed a happy thought, and would make them the talk of the village upon election day.  They would set the decorated pig on the dyke to see the Tory candidate’s carriage roll past in the early morning.

They were indeed the talk of the village; but, alas! the thing itself did not quite fall out as they had anticipated.  For, while they were bent in a cluster within the narrow, slippery quadrangle of the pig-sty, and just as Jamie Wardhaugh sprawled on his knees to catch the slumbering inmate by the hind-leg, they were suddenly hailed in a deep, quiet voice—­the voice of the Old Tory.

“Bide ye whaur ye are, lads—­ye will do bravely there.  I hae Mons Meg on ye, fu’ to the bell wi’ slugs, and she is the boy to scatter.  It was kind o’ ye to come and see to the repairing o’ my bit hoose an’ the comfort o’ my bit swine.  Ay, kind it was—­an’ I tak’ it weel.  Ye see, lads, my wife Meg wull no let me sleep i’ the hoose at election times, for Meg is a reid-headed Radical besom—­sae I e’en tak’ up my quarters i’ the t’ither end o’ the swine-ree, whaur the auld sow died oot o’.”

The men appeared ready to make a break for liberty, but the bell-mouth of Mons Meg deterred them.

“It’s a fine nicht for the time o’ year, Davit!” at last said Jamie Wardhaugh.  “An’ a nice bit pig.  Ye hae muckle credit o’t!”

“Ay,” said David Armitt, “‘deed, an’ ye are richt.  It’s a sonsy bit swine.”

“We’ll hae to be sayin’ guid-nicht, Davit!” at last said Jamie Wardhaugh, rather limply.

“Na, na, lads.  It’s but lanesome oot here—­an’ the morn’s election day.  We’ll e’en see it in thegither.  I see that ye hae a swatch o’ the guid colour there.  That’s braw!  Noo, there’s aneuch o’t for us a’, Jamie; divide it intil five!  Noo, pit ilka yin o’ ye a bit in his bonnet!”

One of the others again attempted to run, but he had not got beyond the dyke of the swine-ree when the cold rim of Mons Meg was laid to his ear.

“She’s fu’ to the muzzle, Wullie,” said the Old Tory; “I wadna rin, gin I war you.”

Willie did not run.  On the contrary, he stood and shook visibly.

“She wad mak’ an awfu’ scatterment gin she war to gang aff.  Ye had better be oot o’ her reach.  Ye are braw climbers.  I saw ye on my riggin’ the nicht already.  Climb your ways back up again, and stick every man o’ ye a bit o’ the bonny yellow in your bonnets.”

So the four jesters very reluctantly climbed away up to the rigging of David Armitt’s house under the lowering threat of Mons Meg’s iron jaws.

Then the Old Tory took out his pipe, primed it, lighted it, and sat down to wait for the dawning with grim determination.  With one eye he appeared to observe the waxing and waning of his pipe; and with the other, cocked at an angle, he watched the four men on his rigging.