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He lookit like some berfit tinkler wife that had been too, an' had t'a'in, ower the heid, intil a barrel o' yellow oker; an' stickin' on his weyst there was ane o' my winda tickets "Just in To-Day." "O, Bawbie!" he wheenged, "gae up the stair an' see if the ruif's aye on. I think somebody's been hoddin' dianamite in oor garret."
As oor respeckit chairman says, I'm no' like Ralph the Rover, sailin' awa' an' scoorin' the sea for mony a day. That looks like a pure weyst o' soap juist like what goes on i' the Toon Cooncil daily-day. You may lauch, freends, but it's ower true; an' wha is't peys for't?" "It's his! It's his, lads!" roared a' the billies i' the washin'-hoose. "It is so," said Sandy.
He was berfit, an' had his jecket an' weyscot aff, an' his gallaces lowsed i' the front an' tied roond his weyst. "We've won the toss, Sandy," says he, "an' the Collie Park's genna handle the willa first. We've sent them in to see what they'll mak'." Sandy took me up the brae a bit, an' I got set doon on the girss wi' Nathan aside me.
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