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"I winder what I'll do wi' this bairn?" said the lassie; an' Sandy, in the middle o' argeyin' wi' anither ass o' a man that the Arbroath cricketers cud lick the best club i' the country, says, rale impident like to the lassie, "Shuve't in ablo the seat." "You hertless vegabon," says I; "think shame o' yoursel! Gie me the bairnie," says I; an' I got the craturie cowshined an' quieted.
"Juist you speer at Bailie Thingymabob, an' you'll shune find oot whuther he thinks the Toon Cooncil or him the biggest o' the twa." "Auch, Bawbie; you're no wirth argeyin' wi'," says Sandy. "You've aye sic a desjeskit wey o' lookin' at things. What's the sense o' bletherin' aboot Bailie Thingymabob?
"Better g'ie the pileeceman tippence than tak' the cratur afore the shirra for stealin', an' mibby hae the toon peyin' a lot o' bawbees for keepin' her in the gyle, forby railroad tickets for her and twa peelars up to Dundee. That wudda been fully mair gin tippence," said Sandy. Argeyin' wi' Sandy's juist like chasin' a whitterit in a drystane dyke.
We'd been argeyin' that muckle aboot eternity, that we'd forgotten aboot the time a'thegither. I'll swag, mind ye, but the men's no' far wrang when they say that weemin have most dreedfu' lang tongues. Dod, mind ye, but it's ower troo; it's ower troo!
"You're clean aff the scent a'thegither. There's nae music aboot gomitry triangles ava. They've naething to do wi' music. They're for measurin' an' argeyin' oot things till a conclusion. Flute bands! Sic a blether o' nonsense. I maun lat you see the triangle book. We was haen a bit rin ower the exyems again lest nicht juist. Noo, juist to gie you an idea, Bawbie!
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