"Aye. It opened its great big mooth."
"There maybe was a gramaphone inside," suggested Gladys.
"Jim Jackson said that it was the mannie that was speakin' a' the time," said Janet.
"Jim Jackson was bletherin'," said Annie with scorn. "Aw watched 'im, and his mooth never moved a' the time."
"Perhaps he was talking through his hat, Annie," I said.
"He wasna," she cried, "for his hat was on the Mester's desk fu' o' pennies!"
"Well," I ventured, "the proverb says that money talks, you know."
"Weel," tittered Annie, "there wasna much money to talk, for the pennies was nearly a' hapennies!"
"Aw dinna understand how that doll managed to speak," said Ellen, and I proceeded to explain the mysteries of ventriloquism to them. Then I told them my one ventriloquist yarn.
A broken-down ventriloquist stopped at a village inn one hot day, and stared longingly through the bar door. He hadn't a cent in his pocket. He sat down on the bench and gazed wearily at a stray mongrel dog that had followed him for days. Suddenly inspiration came to him. He rose and walked into the bar.