aboot Sandy, d'ye ken? He disna care aboot being dawtit by onybody,
especially by folk he disna like. Juist the ither day, for instance,
Sandy was jumpin' doon aff the fore-end o' his cairt. His fit had
tickled in aboot the britchin somewey, an' he cam' lick doon on the
braid o' his back i' the gutter. The bobby was stanin' juist ower the
road at the time, an' cam' rinnin' across wi' his moo wide open.
"Keep me, Sandy, cratur," he says, "what's happen'd? Did you fa' aff
the cairt?"
"G'wa an' mind your ain bizness," says Sandy, jumpin' up, an' gien
himsel' a shak. "The cairt's my nain; I can come doon afen't ony wey I
like."
The bobby gaed awa' rubbin' his chin. "Dod," he saya to Stumpie Mertin
at the corner o' the street "that man Bowden's the queerest jeeger ever
I cam across. He cam' thrash doon on the kribstane there i' the noo,
an' when I ran anower to see if he was ony waur, he juist gae me
impidence, an' said he cud come doon aff his cairt ony wey he liket.
Did you ever hear the like?"
"He's a queer chield, Sandy," said Stumpie. "There's some folk thinks
he wants tippence i' the shillin', but it's my opinion there's aboot
fourteenpence i' the shillin' o' him. He's auld wecht; mind I tell
you."
That's exactly my ain opinion, d'ye ken; an' it akinda astonished me to
hear Stumpie speakin' sense for ance in's life. He's uswally juist a
haverin' doit.
But that's no' what I was genna tell you aboot. Sandy and Bandy
Wobster have had a terriple fortnicht's colligin' thegither. Every
ither nicht they've been ether i' the washin'-hoose or i' the garret;
an' Sandy's been gaen aboot scorin' a' the doors wi' kauk, an' makin'
rings an' lines like railroads an' so on a' ower them.
"What's this you an' Bandy's up till noo?" I says to Sandy the ither
mornin', juist when we were sittin' at oor brakfast. "I howp noo,
Sandy," I says, says I, "that you'll keep clear o' the eediotikal
pliskies you played lest winter."
"You can wadger your henmist bodle on that," says Sandy, as he took a
rive ooten a penny lafe. "There's to be ither kind o' wark on this
winter. Bandy an' me's been busy at the gomitry. Man, Bawbie, it's
raley very interestin'. You mind I spak to you aboot some o' the
triangles an' things that it tells you aboot afore?"
"Weel, look here, Sandy," I says, "I notice you've been scorin' every
door aboot the place wi' your triangles, an' they're juist the very
shape o' the ane Ekky Hebbirn played in the flute band; an', as I
tolled you afore, I'm no' to hae ane o' them aboot the hoose. Preserve
me, man, you'll get as muckle music oot o' the taings, an' mair."
"Keep on your dicky, 'oman," says Sandy. "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!
You mind I tell'd you the exyem aboot things bein' equal to ane anither
when they're equal to some ither thing that's equal to the things that
are equal to ane anither?"
"I mind aboot you haiverin' awa' some nonsense o' that kind," says I;
an', as fac's ocht, I cud hardly haud frae lauchin' at the droll look
on Sandy's face.
"Weel," he gaed on, "that was the first exyem; the henmist is that the
whole is greater than its pairt. That means, d'ye see, for instance,
that my cairt's bigger gin the trams."
"Hoo d'ye mak' that oot?" says I. "Michty me, man, if the trams were
nae bigger gin the cairt, hoo wud Donal' get in atween them? The
thing's ridic'lous."
"You're no' seein't," says Sandy. "Tak' the back door o' the cairt,
for instance. The back door's only a bit o' the cairt, isn't? Weel,
than, shurely the cairt's bigger than the back door."
"You're haiverin' perfeck buff," says I. "The back door's juist exakly
the same size as the cairt, or you wud never get it fessend on. Ony
bairn kens that, gomitry or no gomitry."
"Bliss my hert, Bawbie," says Sandy, gettin' akinda peppery, "shurely
to peace a scone's bigger than a bit o' a scone."
"There's nae doot aboot that," says I, "if the scone that you have a
bit o' is nae bigger gin the scone that's bigger gin the bit o' the
ither ane."
"That's teen for grantit, of coorse," says Sandy.
"But I dinna see hoo that mak's ony difference to the back door o' the
cairt," says I, I says.
Sandy took a gey wild-like bite at his row, an gae twa-three o' his
chuck-chucks, an' then he says, "Man, Bawbie, you weemin fowk have nae
rizzenin' faculty. Naebody wi' ony logic wud need twa looks to see
brawly that onything's bigger than a bit o't, or, as the book says,
that the whole's greater than its pairt. That's self-evident. Tak'
the Toon Cooncil, say. It's shurely bigger than ony ane o' the
Cooncillers."
"Is't na?" I brook in gey quick. "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? Preserve me! if he's only an
echteent pairt o' the Toon Cooncil, shurely common sense 'ill lat you
see that the Toon Cooncil's bigger than he is. Ony bit loonie in the
tower-penny cud see that in a blink."
"Very weel," says I; "juist speer at Bailie Thingymabob himsel'. I'll
swag, if you tell him he's only an echteent pairt o' the Toon Cooncil,
he'll be dealin' wi' anither tattie man gin neist mornin'. Sandy,
loonikie, your exyems may do amon' your triangles an' sic like
fyke-facks an' kyowows, but they're a' blethers you see brawly ony
ither wey."
What a raise Sandy got intil! He was that kankered that he took twa or
three ill-natured rives o' a shreed o' breed, an' a gullar o' tea, an'
fair stankit himsel'. It gaed doon the wrang road, an' Sandy was
nearhand chokit.
"Sairs me richt for argey-bargeyin' wi' a doited cratur that canna see
a thing that's as plen's a pikestaff," he says, efter he had gotten his
nose blawn. Syne he cowshined doon a bittie, an' says, wi' a bit
snicker o' a lauch, "I maun hae you tried wi' the pond's ass anowerim."
"An wha micht he be?" says I.
"That's the fift proposition, Bawbie," says Sandy. "It's ca'ed the
pond's ass anowerim. That's Latin for the cuddy's brig. If you canna
get ower't, you're set down for an ass."
"Have you been ower't, Sandy?" I says, says I.
"No' yet," he says, never lattin' wink that he noticed the dab I had at
him; "but I'm beginnin' to see throo't, I think. Gin I had anither
glisk or twa at her I'll be on the richt side o' her, I'se wadger."
Fient a glint o' sense cud I see in Sandy's palaver; so I says, says
I--"What is this fift proposition you're haiverin' aboot?"
"Weel, it's juist this," says Sandy; an' he began to mak' a lot o'
fairlies wi' his finger amon' the floor aff the rows on the table.
"Look sae, there's what ye ca' a soshilist triangle. Weel, you see the
twa corners at the doon end o' her hare? They're juist the very
marrows o' ane anither; an' if you cairry the lines at the side o' them
here a bit farrer doon, an' get in ablo the boddam o' the triangle,
ye'll find that the corners aneth the boddam are juist the very marrows
o' ane anither too. D'ye see?"
"Ay, Sandy," I says, says I, "you'll better awa' an get Donal' yokit.
I dinna ken what use thae soshilist triangles an' ither feelimageeries
like hen's taes are genna be to you, but I howp they'll no' be learnin'
ye to gie fowk jimp wecht, or it'll juist be the ruin o' your trade.
I've nae objections to you haein' a hobby; but shurely you cud get a
better ane gin a lot o' thae blethers o' Bandy Wobster's. Get ane o'
thae snap-traps, or whativer ye ca' them, for takin' photographs; get
on for the fire brigade or the lifeboat, join the Rifles or something.
There wud be some sense in the like o' that. But fykin' an' scutterin'
awa' amon' exyems, as you ca' them, an' triangles, an' a puckle things
like laddies' girds and draigons, that nae livin' sowl cud mak' ether
eechie or ochie o'----Feech! I wudna be dodled wi' them; juist a lot
o' laddie-paddie buff."
Sandy jamp aff his seat an', rammin' on his hat, gaed bang throo the
shop, yatterin', "Auch, haud your gab; that claikin' tongue o' yours
mak's me fair mauchtless. I micht as weel argey wi' the brute beast i'
the swine-crue till I was black i' the face." An' oot at the door he
gaed, halin't to ahent him wi' a bang that garred the very sweetie
bottles rattle.
VII.
SANDY'S MAGIC LANTERN EXHIBITION.
I was juist gaen oot at the back door on Wednesday nicht last week when
I hears some crackin' gaen on i' the washin'-hoose, an' I lookit in to
see wha was there.
"Man, that's juist the very dollop," says Sandy, as I lifted the sneck.
Dauvid Kenawee an' Bandy Wobster an' him were stravagin' roond aboot
the place wi' a fitrool an' a bawbee can'le, an' I saw immidintly that
there was something i' the wind. I was juist clearin' my throat to lat
them ken there was to be nae mair o' their conspiracies in my
washin'-hoose, when Dauvid slippit in his wird afore me.
"Come awa, Bawbie," he saya, says he, in his uswal quiet wey. "We were
juist seein' aboot whuther we micht hae a bit magic lantern exhibition
here on Setarday nicht. I have a class at the Mission Sabbath Schule,
ye see, an' I was genna hae them at a cup o' tea on Setarday, an' I
thocht o' gien them a bit glisk o' the magic lantern. Robbie Boath,
the joiner, has a lantern he's genna gie's the len' o', an' Sandy here
thinks he can wirk the concern a' richt."
"I've nae objection to onything o' that kind, whaur gude's genna be
done," says I. "But it's no' nane o' your electric oxey hydropathic
kind o' bisnesses, is't? I winna lippen Sandy wi' onything o' that
kind, for I tell ye----"
"Dinna you bather yoursel, Bawbie," brook in Sandy. "This is a parafin
lantern; juist as easy wrocht as your washin' machine there."
"Ay weel, Sandy," says I, "gin ye get on wi' your magic lantern as
weel's ye generally manish wi' the washin' machine, when I'm needin' a
hand o' ye, I'll swag Dauvid's bairns 'ill no' be lang keepit."
"Tach, Bawbie, you're aye takin' fowk aff wi' your impidence," says
Sandy, gey ill-natured like.
But Dauvid an' Bandy juist took a bit lauch at him.
Weel, than, to mak' a lang story short, Setarday nicht cam', and the
magic lantern wi't. Dod, but Sandy had a gey efternune o't. He was
steerin' aboot, carryin' in soap boxes for seats to the bairns, an'
learnin' up his leed aboot the pictures, an' orderin' aboot Nathan; ye
never heard the like! I heard him yatterin' awa' till himsel' i' the
back shop, "The great battle o' Waterloo was fochen in echteen fifteen
atween the English an' the French, an' Bloocher landit on the scene
juist as Wellinton was gien the order--Tuts, ye stupid blockheid,
Nathan, that saft-soap barrel disna gae there--'Up gairds an' at
them.'" He gaed on like this for the feck o' the efternune, an' even
in the middle o' his tea, when I speered if it was het eneuch, he
lookit at me akinda ravelled like, and says, "Although ye was startin'
for that star the day you was born, stride-legs on a cannon ball, ye
wudna be there till ye was mair than ninety 'ear auld."
"Wha's speakin' aboot stars?" says I; "I'm speerin' if your tea's het
eneuch?"
"O, ay, yea, I daursay; it's a' richt," says Sandy. "I was mindin'
aboot Sirias, the nearest fixed star, ye ken. I winder what it's fixed
wi'?"
Seven o'clock cam' roond, an' Dauvid's bairns gaed throo oor entry
like's they'd startit for Sandy's fixed star. They wudda gane through
the washin'-hoose door if it hadna happened to be open. I had
forgotten aboot them at the time; but, keep me, when they cam' oot o'
Dauvid's efter their tea, I floo to the door. I thocht it was somebody
run ower.
Sandy had on his sirtoo an' his lum gin this time, an' he was gaen
about makin' a terriple noise, blawin' his nose in his Sabbath hankie,
an' lookin', haud your tongue, juist as big's bull beef. He gaed into
the washin'-hoose to cowshin the laddies, for they were makin' a
terriple din.
"Now, boys an' loons--an' lassies, I mean," says Sandy, "there must be
total nae noise ava, or the magic lantern 'ill no wirk."
"Hooreh! Time's up!" roared a' the laddies thegither; an' they
whistled, an' kickit wi' their feet till you wudda thocht they wud haen
my gude soap boxes ca'd a' to crockineeshin.
Dauvid appeared to tak' the whole thing as a maitter o' coorse, an'
when I speered if this was juist their uswal, "Tuts ay," says he, "it's
juist the loons in the exoobrians o' their speerits, d'ye know, d'ye
see."
Thinks I to mysel', thinks I, I wud tak' some o' that exoobrians oot o'
them, gin I had a fortnicht o' them. A Sabbath class! It was mair
like a half-timers' fitba' club. But, of coorse, it's no' ilka day
they see a magic lantern.
Mistress Kenawee, an' Mistress Mollison an' her man, the Gairner, an'
the Smith, an' I cudna tell ye hoo mony mair, had gotten wind o't, an'
the washin'-hoose was as foo as cud cram. There was a terriple
atramush amon' the laddies when the can'le was blawn oot, an' syne
Sandy strak a spunk an' lichtit his lantern, an', efter a fell lot o'
fykin', he got her into order.
Sandy gae a keckle o' a host, an' syne he says, "Now, boys an' girls
an' people, the first picture I'm genna show you is Danyil in the den
o' lions. There he is sae!" an' he shot in the picture.
It was an awfu' queer-like picture. I cud nether mak' heid nor tail
o't. It was a' juist akinda greenichy-yallichy like, like's somebody
had skelt a pottal o' green-kail or something on the sheet whaur the
picture was.
"I'm dootin' there's something wrang wi' the fokis," says Bandy Wobster.
"Juist you look efter your ain fokis, Bandy," says Sandy, gey peppery
weys, "an' lat ither fowk's fokises aleen."
"Are ye share you're richt wi' the picture?" Dauvid Kenawee speered.
"There's naething wrang wi' the picture," says Sandy. "Ye see that
kind o' a broon bit doon at the fit there? That's ane o' Danyil's
feet."
"Look the number o' the slide, Sandy," said Bandy, "an' mak' shure
you're richt. They're mibby oot o' order."
"You're oot o' order," said Sandy, as angry as a wasp. "Haud that lum
hat, Bawbie!" he says; an' he oot wi' the picture, an' roars
oot--"Number 2217! Look up 2217, Nathan, i' the book there, an' see
what it says."
Efter kirnin' aboot amon' the leaves o' his book for a meenit or twa,
Nathan got up his nose to the moo o' the lantern an' read oot--"A slice
o' a drunkard's liver."
"What d'ye say?" says Sandy. "Lat's see't."
"A slice o' a drunkard's liver," says Nathan again.
Sandy grippit the book, an' efter a meenit, he says, "Ay, man; so
you're richt. There's been some mixin' amon' the pictures. This is a
slice or section o' a drunkard's liver," he continued, "showin' the
effeks o' alcohol."
The laddies hurraed the drunkard's liver like onything, an' this gae
Sandy time to get his breath, an' to dicht the sweit aff his face.
"That's the kind o' a liver ye'll get if you're drunkards," said Sandy.
"The action o' the alcohol dejinerates the tishie until the liver
becomes akwilly ransed, an' the neebriate becomes a total wreck." At
this the laddies an' lassies clappit their hands like a' that.
"See that ye never get a drunkard's liver," said Sandy in a solemn
voice; an' ane o' Dauvid's laddies says, "By golly, I wudna like a
sowser o' a liver like that, onywey," an' set a' the rest a-lauchin'.
"Attention!" shouted Dauvid till his class; an' Bandy Wobster--wha was
busy glowerin' at the drunkard's liver, an' windrin' what like his ain
was, nae doot--strak in, without kennin', wi' "Shoulder arms!" an' the
laddies roared an' leuch till you wud actually thocht they wudda
wranged themsel's. Gin they stoppit, Sandy had fa'in' in wi' Danyil,
an' there he was, glowerin' at's a', life-size, an' twenty lions
wirrin' a' roond aboot him.
Sandy tell'd the story aboot Danyil, an' hoo he was flung in amon' the
lions for no' bein' a vegabon'; an' faigs, mind ye. Sandy got on
winderfu'. The laddies paid fine attention, an' ye cudda heard a preen
fa'in' when Sandy was speakin'.
"There's no' nae lions' dens nooadays, ye see," say Sandy, to feenish
up wi'. "What is't they do wi' creeminals or notorious fowk noo?"
"Pet them on for Toon Cooncillers," said ane o' the biggest o' Dauvid's
laddies; an' Bandy Wobster lut oot a great ballach o' a lauch, an'
roared at the pitch o' his voice--"Confoond it! Feech! I've swallowed
a bit tobacco!"
Then there were pictures o' Joseph an' Moses, an' a great lot mair
Bible characters, the loons roarin' oot the names generally afore the
pictures were half in sicht. They were roid loons, an' nae mistak',
but I can tell ye they had the Bible at their finger nebs. Dauvid was
as prood's Loocifer aboot the laddies answerin' so smert; but Sandy
hardly liked it.
They had a' the Bible stories as dare's dare cud be, an' whenever ony
picture appeared they had a' the story roared to ane anither afore
Sandy got his fokis putten into order. Bible knowledge is a grand
thing, nae doot; but the laddies fair took Sandy's job ower his heid;
an' he hardly liked it, as ye'll readily understan'.
But the local characters gae Sandy a better chance, an', I ashure you,
he took full advantage o't. He gae a lang laberlethan aboot some o'
the pictures--keep me, if he'd carried on like yon at ilky picture, he
wudna been dune when the forenune bells wudda been ringin' for the kirk
next day.
"I have noo some kapital pictures o' auld Arbroathians to show you,"
said Sandy to the bairns "the reg'lar rale Reed Lichties. An' I howp
the laddies here 'ill tak' a lesson frae them, an' stick in an' get
their pictures in magic lanterns efter they're deid too, an' get great
big mossyleeums--that's thae great muckle sowsers o' gravesteens, juist
like mill stalks, ye ken--oot in the Warddykes Cemetery, wi' their
names chiseled on them in gold letters."
The loons riffed an' clappit their hands at this like's they were a'
wishin' they were deid an' buried ablo a big gravesteen.
Efter a lot o' palaver, Sandy shot in his first local picture.
"This is Provost---- What was his name again? Be was wint to be a
great lad at---- Man, what's his name again, Bandy?" says he.
"I dinna ken, Sandy," said Bandy; "but it strik's me you have him into
the lantern upside doon. He's stanin' on his heid."
"He was a gey upside-doon character, at ony rate," said the Smith. "He
was juist aboot as muckle use the tae wey as the tither."
Sandy got his Provost putten richt; but some o' the rest o' his
notables were juist as pranky. They cam' in backside-foremost,
upside-doon, lying alang the floor--ye never saw the like--until Sandy
was near-hand at the swearin'. "Confoond thae Provosts and Bailies,"
says he, "I never saw sic a set."
"Ow, ow, Sandy," says I, "ye needna get angry at thae bodies; they're
a' deid."
"Ay weel, we'll hae a whup at some o' the livin' anes," says Sandy.
"Gie me up some o' thae slides in the green box," he cries to Nathan.
"Whaur hae ye putten the Provosts an' the Bailies?"
"I have them a' in my breeks' pooch," says Nathan. "They're a' richt."
"An' whaur's the drunkard's liver?"
"O, I laid it on the boiler-heid, alang wi' Danyil an' some mair."
"See an' no' be mixin' them than," said Sandy, shovin' in another
slide. "This, as you'll easily recognise, is Bailie Thingymabob."
The laddies gae the Bailie a roond o' applause, an' Bandy Wobster says,
"Man, but he's awfu' indistink, Sandy. Ye can hardly mak' him oot."
"That's no' to be windered at," says Sandy. "I never fell in wi'
onybody that cud mak' him oot. Ye canna expeck a magic lantern to do
what ye canna do yersel'. It'll be a bad job for the Bailie, I can
tell you, when fowk begin to mak' him oot. The next picture is
Cooncillor Spinaway."
"Ay, I'll go doon the yaird an' hae a reek," says Bandy, gettin up frae
his seat, an' settin' a' the loons a-lauchin'.
"Ye needna gae awa' i' the noo," says Dauvid. "Wait till you see the
rest o' the pictures."
"Dinna mistak' yersel'," says Bandy in laich, "when that cove's gotten
on his feet he'll no' sit doon for half an 'oor. I never saw him get
up yet but he gae a'body mair than their sairin' o' sooage, an'
main-drains, an' gas-warks, an' so on afore he feenisht. Wait till you
see."
"Haud your haiverin' tongue," said Sandy. "Bliss your heart, he's in
the magic lantern. He canna speak there."
"I daursay you're richt," says Bandy, clawin' his heid. "Weel, the
Provost shud juist keep a magic lantern handy, an' gar him bide in't.
That wud keep him quiet at the meetin's."
"We'll lat ye see a picture o' the whole Toon Cooncil, noo," said
Sandy; an' in cam' the picture. "There's been some mair mixin' again,"
said Sandy, gey kankered like. "That's shurely no' the Toon Cooncil.
What's number echteen, Nathan?"
"The pleg o' locusts in Egypt," says Nathan.
"Hoo's that gotten in there, ava?" says Sandy.
"O, they'd juist putten't amon' the ither plegs," brook in Bandy
Wobster.
"Here's a very interestin' slide," says Sandy, as he put in the next
picture. "This is a picture o' the deputation that waited on some o'
the members o' the Toon Cooncil at lest election an' priggit wi' them
to bide in, altho' they were awfu' anxious to hae dune wi't."
"That's like a picture o' a bunghole withoot a barrel roond it," said
ane o' Dauvid's laddies.
"There's naebody there, Sandy," said Bandy Wobster.
"Ay, but that's the deputation tho'," said Sandy. "They're mibby
inveesible, but that's them for a' that. The name's on the picture.
You can look yersel', if you dinna believe me."
"Ay, Pepper's Ghost!" roars oot the Smith. "He waits on lots o' fowk
aboot election times. He's juist a perfeck scunner, nominatin' fowk
against their will, an' draggin' them into publicity when they wud far
raither be kickin' up some ither kind o' a row."
He's an awfu' haiverin' body the Smith sometimes. When he's sensible,
he's juist akinda ridic'lously sensible; an' when he's' no', he's juist
as far the ither wey.
"Deputations is aye anonimous," says Sandy. "They aye turn up wi' a
nomdy plum. It's juist the men's modesty that keeps them oot o' sicht.
They pey a' their veesits throo the nicht, an' fient a cratur kens
eechie or ochie aboot them. Man, I like modesty. I've a great respeck
for a deputation that keeps oot o' sicht."
"C'wa wi' some mair pictures," roared some o' the laddies, an' Sandy's
grand perrygrinashin ended a' o' a sudden.
"The next picture is a very interestin' ane," said Sandy, efter he'd
gotten a breath. "This is ane o' the famous meal mobs. You see the
crood o' men, sae, they're a' roarin' thegither. There's neen o' you
loons 'ill mind o' the meal mobs," said Sandy, "but I mind o' them
fine. A gey toon it was i' thae days. You'll notice the auld
Toon-Clark i' the middle there, wi' his hands up, threatenin' to send
for the pileece, an' a' the crood yalpin' at him like as mony dogs. I
can tell you loons, ye may thank your stars that you wasna born when
wey-o'-doin's like that was carried on i' the toon. You dinna ken
naethin' aboot it. There's been naethin' like it i' the toon o'
Arbroath sin'----"
"Hold on, Sandy," roared Nathan; "that's the wrang picture you have in
again; here's the meal mob here. Look an' see what's on that ane."
"A Presbitree Meetin'!" read oot Sandy; an' you wudda thocht the Smith
an' Bandy Wobster were genna ding doon the hoose wi' their noise an'
roarin' an' lauchin'.
"I thocht they were gey black-lookin' gentry for a meal mob," says the
Smith; an' Bandy nodded his heid an' leuch, an' says, "Man, Sandy's a
perfeck genius as fac's ocht, I hinna heard onything like him."
I hinna time to tell you aboot a' the rest o' the exhibition. It was a
treat in mair weys than ane. Sandy lut's see a lot o' notables like
Mester Gladstone, an' Blind Hewie, an' Steeple Jeck, an' the Prince o'
Wales, an' Burke an' Hair, an' the Jook o' Argile, an' Dykin Elshinder.
But the crooner o' them a' cam' when Sandy says--"Noo, here's
Snakimupo, the famous king o' the Cannibal Islands, an' his favourite
squaw, that eats missionaries, an' Bibles, an' poopits whenever they
can get a haud o' them"--an' in he shot--wha d'ye think? Juist Sandy
an' me oorsels, life-size--ay, an' bigger!
"O, golly midgins!" says ane o' Dauvid's lassies, wi' her hands up, an'
her moo an' her een wide open.