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"Look here, Bawbie," says Sandy, "if you're genna rag me ony mair aboot that, it's as fac's ocht, I'll rin awa' an' join the mileeshie. I wud raither be blawn into minch wi' an' echty-ton gun than stand ony mair o' your gab." "Tut, tut, Sandy," says I, "keep on your dickie, man. Ye're no' needin' to get into a pavey like that.
Keep me, fowk wud think ye was discussin' the auld kirk questin, the wey you're roarin'. The mileeshie wudna hae you at ony rate, an' we're no' juist dune wi' ye at hame yet. But neist time you're makin' a speech, Sandy, dinna try an' stand on ae leg. That's what put ye aff the straucht. Ye see " I lookit roond, an' Sandy wasna there.
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