“No,” says the collector, “it winna pay for ye a’.”
“How much, then, are we owing to you?”
“I was looking ower my books last nicht, and I think you are owing me tippence.”
“How much will you let us off for—present, past, and to come?”
“Pope Leo X.,” said Hawkie, “in the sixteenth century, commenced the sale of indulgences, for the purpose of aggrandising his Church, and the harlot kirk never fairly damned hersel’ till then. I’m no gaun to follow such an example.”
This ingenious argument, we may be sure, brought forth more than the stipulated amount.
Our “collector of poor’s rates” frequently took his stand at the north end of Glasgow Bridge. On the occasion of a special public rejoicing, a grand floral arch had been thrown over there, bearing in its very appearance the evidence of a lavish expenditure of the public funds.
“What height do you think that arch will be?” asked some one of Hawkie.
“The heicht o’ hanged nonsense,” was the instant reply.