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Being quite ignorant of the whereabouts of his regiment when last heard of they had been in trenches near Ypres and failing to recollect the existence of that autocratic but indispensable genius loci, the R.T.O., Angus took uneasy stock of his surroundings and wondered what to do next. Suddenly a friendly voice at his elbow remarked "There's a queer lot o' bodies hereaboot, sirr."
"Set ye doon, Sir, hereaboot," she said, opening a solid door into the inner room; "neaver gain no fear at aw o' crackin' o' the setties; fairm, fairm anoo' they be, thoo sketterish o' their lukes, Sir. Set ye doon, your Warship; fafty poons desarveth a good room, wi'oot ony lugs o' anemees." "What a beautiful room!" exclaimed Mr. Mordacks; "and how it savors of the place!
"I'm wantin' a word wi' ye, Mr. Blyth," he said to his favourite one day. "What is it, Sandy?" "It's no' muckle, sir; it's jist this, ye ken. I'm wantin' an auld suit o' claes frae ye; ye're the only man hereaboot that'll fit me."
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