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He's a man noo, and weel luikit upo'; but it maks unco little differ to his parents! He's jist as dour as ever, and as far as man could weel be frae them he cam o'! never a word to the ane or the ither o' 's! Gien we war twa dowgs, he couldna hae less to say til's, and micht weel hae mair!
"I pay the High School of Skeighan to thrash him, and I'll take damned good care I get my money's worth. I don't mean to hire dowgs and bark for mysell." He grabbed his son by the coat collar and swung him out the room. Down High Street he marched, carrying his cub by the scruff of the neck as you might carry a dirty puppy to an outhouse.
"What can'd be, I wonder?" said Watt; "I think I can smell somethin'." "I halways thought you 'ad somethink of an old dog in you," said Dumsby. "Ay, man!" said the Scot with a leer, "I ken o' war beasts than auld dowgs." "Do you? come let's 'ear wat they are," said the Englishman. "Young puppies," answered the other. "Hurrah! dinner, as I'm a Dutchman," cried Forsyth. This was indeed the case.
I hae seen this bit hole as fu' o' pairtricks and pheasants as it could hand, an' a' the keepers and their dowgs smellin', and them could na find it oot. Na, the water taks awa' the smell." "Are ye not coming out, Jock?" queried Ralph. "That's as may be," said Jock briefly. "What do ye want wi' Jock?" "Come up," said Ralph; "I shall tell you how ye can help me. Ye ken that I helped you yestreen."
"What can'd be, I wonder?" said Watt; "I think I can smell somethin'." "I halways thought you 'ad somethink of an old dog in you," said Dumsby. "Ay, man!" said the Scot with a leer, "I ken o' war beasts than auld dowgs." "Do you? come let's 'ear wat they are," said the Englishman. "Young puppies," answered the other. "Hurrah! dinner, as I'm a Dutchman," cried Forsyth. This was indeed the case.
"D'ye think I keep tea biscuits and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled she wiped her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire. "Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter.
He has nowther balm o' grace nor pith o' damnation. "Yon laad Flemin', 'at preached i' the Baillies' Barn aboot the dowgs gaein' roon' an' roon' the wa's o' the New Jeroozlem, gien he had but hauden thegither an' no gean to the worms sae sune, wad hae dung a score o' 'im.
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