“Blethering gowks that we are, of course it is!” cried Corp, and he turned almost fiercely upon Gav.  “Lippen all to him,” he said with grand confidence, “he’ll find a wy.”

And Tommy found a way.  Birkie was the boy who bought the pack of cards.  He saw Tommy looking so-woe-begone that it was necessary to ask the reason.

“Oh, Birkie, lend me threepence,” sobbed Tommy, “and I’ll give you sixpence the morn.”

“You’re daft,” said Birkie, “there’s no a laddie in Thrums that will have one single lonely bawbee the morn.”

“Him that buys the cards,” moaned Tommy, “will never be without siller, for you tell auld folks fortunes on them at a penny every throw.  Lend me threepence, Birkie.  They cost a sic, and I have just—­”

“Na, na,” said greedy Birkie, “I’m no to be catched wi’ chaff.  If it’s true, what you say, I’ll buy the cards mysel’.”

Having thus got hold of him, Tommy led Birkie to a stand where the King of Egypt was telling fortunes with cards, and doing a roaring trade among the Jocks and Jennys.  He also sold packs at sixpence each, and the elated Birkie was an immediate purchaser.

“You’re no so clever as you think yoursel’!” he said triumphantly to Tommy, who replied with his inscrutable smile.  But to his satellites he said, “Not a soul will buy a fortune frae Birkie.  I’ll get thae cards for a penny afore next week’s out.”

Francie Crabb found Tommy sniggering to himself in the back wynd.  “What are you goucking at?” asked Francie, in surprise, for, as a rule, Tommy only laughed behind his face.

“I winna tell you,” chuckled Tommy, “but what a bar, oh, what a divert!”

“Come on, tell me.”

“Well, it’s at the man as is swallowing swords ahint the menagerie.”

“I see nothing to laugh at in that.”

“I’m no laughing at that.  I’m laughing at him for selling the swords for ninepence the piece.  Oh, what ignorant he is, oh, what a bar!”

“Ninepence is a mislaird price for a soord,” said Francie.  “I never gave ninepence.”

Tommy looked at him in the way that always made boys fidget with their fists.

“You’re near as big a bar as him,” he said scornfully.  “Did you ever see the sword that’s hanging on the wall in the backroom at the post-office?”

“No, but my father has telled me about it.  It has a grand name.”

“It’s an Andrea Ferrara, that’s what it is.”

“Ay, I mind the name now; there has been folk killed wi’ that soord.”

This was true, for the post-office Andrea Ferrara has a stirring history, but for the present its price was the important thing.  “Dr. McQueen offered a pound note for it,” said Tommy.

“I ken that, but what has it to do wi’ the soord-swallower?”

“Just this; that the swords he is selling for ninepence are Andrea Ferraras, the same as the post-office ones, and he could get a pound a piece for them if he kent their worth.  Oh, what a bar, oh, what—­”