“Go for him, Jock! You can easy lick him,” said a voice encouragingly.
“Pit him oot, Docthor,” said Jock, who was a great friend of the family, and who had a profound respect for the doctor.
“It's beyond me, Jock, I fear. See yon bantam cock! I doubt ye'll hae to be content,” said the doctor, dropping into Jock's kindly Doric.
“Oh, get on there, Murchison,” said Dunn impatiently. “You're not going to make an ass of me; make up your mind to that!”
Jock hesitated, meditating a sudden charge, but checked by his respect for Doctor Dunn.
“Here, you fellows!” shouted a voice. “Fall in; the band is going to play! Get into line there, you Tam-o'-shanter; you're stopping the procesh! Now then, wait for the line, everybody!” It was Little Martin on top of the van in which were the Scottish players. “Tune, 'Old Grimes'; words as follows. Catch on, everybody!”
“Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn.”
With a delighted cheer the crowd formed in line, and, led by the little quarter-back on top of the van, they set off down the street, two men at the heads of the doctor's carriage horses, holding them in place behind the van. On went the swaying crowd and on went the swaying chant, with Martin, director of ceremonies and Dunn hurling unavailing objurgations and entreaties at Jock's head.
Through the uproar a girl's voice reached the doctor's ear:
“Aren't they lovely, Sir?”