“Have ye no heerd tell that fowk a bit saft i’ the heid have a wonderfu’ way wi’ animals, an’ pigs are always a fine mairket.”
“A bit heavy, McToddy. Trem yer whuskers an’ change yer trousies for a kelt, an’ mebbe ye’ll crack a joke wi’ less deeficulty.”
The under–gardener chortled, for the Honorable Billy could imitate the Scots dialect with an unction that was decidedly mirth–provoking.
“Ma name’s no McToddy,” began the other.
“Well, then, McWhusky. I ken the noo from yer rid neb that there’s michty little watter in yer composition.”
Snorting defiance, but not daring to pour forth the wrath that boiled up in him, the man pushed a mowing–machine savagely across the lawn.
“Routed!” smiled Billy. “Bannockburn is avenged!”
“What is amusing you, Mr. Thring?” asked Evelyn, who had walked over the grass unheard.
“I have just discovered my lost vocation,” he said. “I am a buffoon, Miss Dane, an idle jester. The only difference between me and a music–hall comedian is that my humor is not remunerative.”
“Why, when I left you last night you were on the verge of proposing to Mrs. Laing, a most serious undertaking.”