“In ten to fifteen minutes he examined the pictures in the Art Galleries—the Dutch, the English, the Italian, and the Gleska schools o’ painters; the stuffed birds, and the sugaraully hats the polis used to hae when you and me was jinkin’ them.
“‘Och, it’s fine,’ says he; ‘there’s naething wrang wi’ the place. Are we no’ near Maryhill noo?’
“Ye see his Majesty had on a bate he could see the hale o’ Gleska in five ‘oors or less, an’ be oot sooner nor ony ither king that ever set a fit in it. They wanted him to mak’ a circular tour o’t, and come back to the Municeepal Buildin’s for his tea.
“‘Catch me,’ says he. ‘I’m gaun back to Dalkeith.’
“A’ this time we were standin’ on Duffy’s lorry, flanked on the left by the Boy’s Brigade, lookin’ awfu’ fierce, and the riflemen frae Dunoon on the richt. Every noo an’ then a sodger went bye on a horse, or a lassie nearly fainted and had to be led alang the line by a polisman, and him no’ awfu’ carin’ for the job. Duffy was gaun up the street to buy broon robin that aften he was gettin’ sunburnt, and my wife Jinnet nearly hurt her een lookin’ for weans.
“‘’Look at thon wee wean, Erchie,’ she wad aye be tellin’ me, ‘does’t no’ put ye in mind o’ Rubbert’s wee Hughie? Oh, the cratur!’
“‘Wumman,’ I tellt her, ‘this is no’ a kinderspiel ye’re at; it’s a Royal procession. I wonder to me ye wad be wastin’ yer e’esicht lookin’ at weans when there’s sae mony braw sodgers.’
“‘Oh, Erchie!’ says she, ‘I’m bye wi’ the sodgers;’ and jist wi’ that the procession cam’ up the street. First the Lancers wi’ their dickies stickin’ ootside their waistcoats.
“‘Man, them’s fine horses,’ says Duffy, wi’ a professional eye on the beasts. ‘Chaps me that broon yin wi’ the white feet.’
“Then cam’ the King and Queen.