“Gallopin’ consumption!” exclaimed the natural, and replaced the coin with a dowie shake of his head.
The farmer next day substituted a half-sovereign.
“Noo ye’ve ta’en the jaundice,” exclaimed Jock on a subsequent visit. “Ye’ll need to be keepit warm,” and so saying, he placed the coin in his breek-pooch and kept it there.
A minister of the North of Scotland, who was not too ready at paying his debts, but very fond of a joke, meeting a fool he was in the habit of teasing, asked him how the potatoes were selling in the moon just now. “Oh, very cheap, and plenty of them,” said the fool.
“But don’t you think,” said the minister, “that there might be a difficulty in getting them down?”
“Nae fear o’ that,” answered the fool. “Send up the money, and they’ll soon send them down.”
A Perthshire tradesman, recently deceased, who was not naturally weak-minded, but whose intellect had been partially ruined by dissipation, was confined for several months, a number of years ago, to Murthly Asylum. On his liberation, he received, in accordance with the custom of such institutions, the written assurance of two doctors that he was a person perfectly sane, and safe to be at large. Some time subsequently, when he was engaged on a “job” along with a number of his fellow craftsmen at a country farm, a wordy war arose which waxed so hot and furious that one of the combatants turned savagely on our hero and told him he was “daft.”
“Daft!” echoed he, plunging his hands into the oxter pocket of his jacket. “Daft! blast ye! Look here, I can show twa certificates that I’m wise, and there’s not anither man on the job that can produce ane!”
He was right.