Whilst staying at MacFoozle Castle, my excellent host insisted that I
should accompany him to see the Highland games. The MacFoozle himself is
a typical Hielander, and appeared in a kilt and jelly-bag--philabeg, I
mean. Suggested to him that I should go, attired in pair of
bathing-drawers, Norfolk jacket, and Glengarry cap, but he, for some
inscrutable reason of his own, negatived the idea. Had half a mind to
dress in kilt myself, but finally decided against the national costume
as being too draughty. Arrived on ground, and found that "tossing the
caber" was in full progress. Braw laddies struggled, in turn, with
enormous tree trunk. The idea of the contest is, that whoever succeeds
in killing the greatest number of spectators by hurling the tree on to
them, wins the prize. Fancy these laddies had been hung too long, or
else they were particularly braw. Moved up to windward of them promptly.
"Who is the truculent-looking villain with red whiskers?" I ask.
"Hush!" says my host, in awed tones. "That is the MacGinger himself!"
I grovel. Not that I have ever even heard his name before, but I don't
want to show my ignorance before the MacFoozle. The competition of
pipers was next in order, and I took to my heels and fled. Rejoined
MacFoozle half an hour later to witness the dancing. On a large raised
platform sat the judges, with the mighty MacGinger himself at their
head. Can't quite make out whether the dance is a Reel, a Strathspey, a
Haggis, or a Skirl--sure it is one or the other. Just as I ask for
information, amid a confusing whirl of arms and legs and "Hoots!" a
terrific crack is heard, and the platform, as though protesting at the
indignities heaped upon it, suddenly gives way, and in a moment,
dancers, pipers, and judges are hurled in a confused and struggling heap
to the ground. The MacGinger falls upon some bag-pipes, which emit
dismal groanings beneath his massive weight. This ends the dancing
prematurely, and a notice is immediately put up all round the grounds
that (to take its place) "There will be another competition of
bag-pipes." I read it, evaded the MacFoozle, and fled.
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