"And what will ye do wi' yer hands?" put in Fred Findlay; "there's nae pooches in a kilt."
"Goad, Fred," said Jim, "Aw never thocht o' that; we'll just hae to wrastle on wi' oor breeks and oor gallis's."
"Ye cud wear a belt," suggested Janet.
"And gie mysel' pewmonia! No likely!"
"It's no pewmonia that ye get wearin' a belt," said Janet, "it's a pendicitis."
"G'wa, lassie, what do you ken aboot breeks onywye?"
"Aw ken mair than you do, Jim Jackson. For wan thing Aw ken that it's no a subject ye shud speak aboot afore lassies. Come on, Ellen, we'll go ootside; the conversation's no proper."
Jim glanced at me doubtfully.
"It was her that said that breeks cud be buttoned to yer sark!" he exclaimed. He jumped up and hastened to the door.
"Janet Broon," I heard him cry, "dinna you speak aboot sarks to me again; sarks is no a proper subject o' conversation for young laddies."