‘One quastion at a time, my lad,’ answered the big Highlander. ‘They are electin’ a Lord Rector; the ploy will gang on for a week or ten days yet. And they vote in “nations,” according to the part o’ the country they belong to. I was born in the Duke’s country, and consequently my vote is worth conseederably more than that o’ yon wee spectacled callant who was kittled in the Gorbals, for example.’
‘I was born in Kyleshire,’ said Alec.
‘Then you’re Rothseiana,’ said the stranger, ‘and your vote’s worth more than mine. I’d advise ye to choose at once, and put down your name at one club or the other, or they’ll tease your life out.’
‘But who are the candidates?’
‘Mr. Sharpe, and Lord Dummieden, of course.’
Alec knew Mr. Sharpe’s name as that of an ex-Cabinet Minister on the Liberal side, who had the reputation of being a scholar, but who had never written anything beyond two or three pungent articles in The Debater.
‘And who is Lord Dummieden?’
‘What!’ answered the Highlander; ‘is it possible that you have never heard of the “History of the British Isles before the Roman Invasion,” in sixteen volumes, by the Right Honourable James Beattie, Viscount Dummieden, of Crumlachie?’
Alec gave an incredulous look, and the other laughed outright.
‘Don’t be offended,’ said the Highlander.