Speaking of Dave ... when Macdonald was worrying over the allocation of prizes the other week, he asked me if Dave was good at anything.
"Well," I said, "he holds the record for spitting farther than any boy in the school; I think he deserves a prize for that. Believe me, Macdonald, every boy in the class would rather hold that record than carry off the prize for arithmetic ... and I don't blame them either."
The subject of Scots and tipping puts me in mind of what is probably the best "Scot in London" yarn.
A Scot, followed by his five children, entered the Ritz Hotel, and sat down in the lounge.
"Waiter! A bottle o' leemonade and sax tumblers!" he cried.
The waiter was too dumbfounded to do anything but bring the liquor. He stood in open-mouthed amazement as the Scot divided the bottle among the six glasses, but, when the Scot took a bag of buns from his pocket and proceeded to distribute them, the waiter set off blindly to find the manager.
The manager approached. He tapped the Scot on the shoulder, and in a stern voice he said: "Excuse me, but I'm the manager of this establishment."
The Scot looked up at him sharply.
"O, ye're the manager, are ye? Weel, why the hell's the band's no playin'?"