A tale of dialect told by Mr. Berkeley Hights, holder of the twelfth ball
“Hoot mon!”
The words rang out derisively on the cold frosty air of Drumtochty, as Lang Tammas walked slowly along the street, looking for the residence of Drumsheugh. The effect was electrical. Tammas stopped short, and turning about, scanned the street eagerly to see who it was that had spoken. But the highway was deserted, and the old man shook his stick, as if at an imaginary foe.
“I’ll hoot-mon the dour eediot that’s eensoolted a veesitor to Drumtochty!” he shouted. “I haena brought me faithfu’ steck for naething!” he added.
He glared about, now at this closed window, now at that, as if inviting his enemy to come forth and be punished, but seeing no signs of life, turned again to resume his walk, muttering angrily to himself. It was indeed hardly to be tolerated that he, one of the great characters of fiction, should be thus jeered at, as he thought, while on a friendly pilgrimage from Thrums to Drumtochty, the two rival towns in the affections of the consumers of modern letters; and having walked all the way from his home at Thrums, Lang Tammas was tired, and therefore in no mood to accept even a mild affront, much less an insult.
He had scarcely covered ten paces, however, when the same voice, with a harsh cackling laugh, again broke the stillness of the street:
“Gang awa’, gang awa’—ha, ha, ha!”
Tammas rushed into the middle of the way and picked up a stone.
