“Farther than London?” gasped two of the somewhat alarmed tourists.
“Ay, to be shurely, and further than America too,” replied the Highlander.
“Farther than America?” shouted all the Cockneys together. “Impossible!”
“It’s shoost true what I tell you whatever,” said Donald; “but if you’ll won’t believe me, shoost sit doon there, and took out your flasks and took a dram, and wait for twa oors and more, and if the mist will clear awa’ you will see the moon from here.”
We may suppose that the next shepherd who came in the way of these tourists would not be unduly interrogated.
A Highland lassie whom I have heard of was not quite so successful in an encounter with the Sassenach postmaster. She had gone to the Post Office to take out a money order.
“Where is your order to go?” demanded the clerk, with the snappishness which only Post Office officials can command, and which roused the inflammable blood of the young countrywoman of Helen Macgregor.
“What you’ll ask for? You’ll look your book, and you’ll saw there,” the girl tartly replied (she had got an order a short time previous).
“I must know where your order is to go to,” said the clerk, firmly.