“Hullo, Geordie,” cried one fellow, rushing up and seizing Sandie by the hand; “man, I’m awfu’ glaid to see you.”
“And hoo’s the taties and neeps?” cried another.
Sandie answered never a word.
“Man, Geordie Muckiefoot, do you think ye can manage to do a version?”
“Can you conjugate amo, Geordie? Ye ken hoo it goes: Amo, amas, I love a lass; amas, amat, she lived in a flat, and so on?”
“But I say, Geordie Muckiefoot,” cried a taller fellow, coming forward and throwing himself into a pugilistic attitude before Sandie—squaring up, as it is called—“can ye fecht? Losh! I’m spoilin’ for a fecht.”
“I can’t fight, and I won’t fight,” said Sandie; “I’d rather be friends with you.”
“Rather run a mile than fecht a minute, eh? Weel, weel, dinna fash your fins; I wadna like to hurt ye, Geordie Muckiefoot.”
This hulking lad, it may be as well to state, was the bully of the school, and all had to lower their flag to him. He changed his tactics now to tactics more tantalising.
“And foo (how) did ye leave a’ at hame?” he asked. “Foo is your big fat mither, and your sister, muckle-moo’d Meg?”