"Ah, so it is—so it is"—quoth Rory, rubbing his hands. "Here, poy—here, Tuncan—pring it here—let me cut it up mysell—let me cut it mysell."
It was accordingly placed before Rory, who, all impatience, plunged his knife into it—murder, what a hautgout, and no wonder; for it actually proved to be a guava pudding, that the drunken cook had stuffed into the sheep's stomach!
However, we had all a good laugh, doing great honour, notwithstanding, to an excellent dinner; and when we began to enjoy ourselves over our wine, Dr Tozy and Twig, aided and abetted by Flamingo, amused us exceedingly by the fun they extracted from our friend Rory.
Mr Macgregor not being quite so polished a gentleman as his Majesty George IV., had been rather particular, shortly after this, in his notice of Mr Twig's coat—the colour of which some how did not please him.
"Noo, I taresay, Maister Twick, you ca' that plue—a plue coat—put I think it mair plack tan plue."
"Why, Mac, you are not so far wrong, it is more black than blue."
"Ah, so I thought," quoth Rory.
"And I'll give you the reason, if you promise not to tell," said Twig. "It is the first trial piece of my new patent cloth."
"Your patent cloth!" whispered the last of the Goths, "have you a patent for cloth."
"To be sure I have—that never loses the colour, and is as impervious to wet as a lawyer's wig, or a duck's wing."