“‘Every man to his taste, please your honour,’ answered Duncan MacAlpine; ‘let ilka ane please her nain sell’—hauling up a screed half a yard lang. ‘Ilka man to his taste, please your honour, Lovetenant Todrick.’”
“’Od, man,” said I to him, “’Od, man, ye’re a deacon at telling a story. Ye’re a queer hand. Weel, what came next?”
“What think ye should come next?” quo’ Thomas drily.
“I’m sure I dinna ken,” answered I.
“Weel,” said he, “I’ll tell—but where was I at?”
“Ou, at the observe of Lovetenant Todrick, or what they caa’d him, about the tripe; and the answer of Duncan MacAlpine on that head, ‘That ilka man has his ain taste.’”
“‘Vera true,’ said Lovetenant Todrick, ‘but lift it out a’ the-gither on that dish, till I get my specs on; for never since I was born, did I ever see before boiled tripe with buttons and button-holes intill’t.’”
At this I set up a loud laughing, which I could not help, though it was like to split my sides; but Thomas Burlings bade me whisht till I heard him out.
“‘Buttons and button-holes!’ quo’ Duncan MacAlpine. ‘Look again, wi’ yer specs; for ye’re surely wrang, Lovetenant Todrick.’”
“‘Buttons and button-holes! and ’deed I am surely right, Duncan,’ answered the Lovetenant Todrick, taking his specs deliberately off the brig o’ his nose, and faulding them thegither, as he put them first into his shagreen case, and syne into his pocket—‘Howsomever, Duncan MacAlpine, I’ll pass ye ower for this time, gif ye take my warning, and for the future