“Hey, man!” No response.
“Whar will I find your maister?” No response.
“Whatna ticket is this?” as her eye here fell on a card hung to the wire-netting, and she spelt out slowly, “This—is—my—busy—day. Fegs, by the look o’ him I should say it is. Hey, man!” No response, the man of the big ledger calmly continuing to write.
“Eh, puir chiel!” exclaimed Mrs Crowdie, “he maun hae a hard maister or be dull o’ hearin,” and she thereupon rattled on the counter with her umbrella.
“Oh, were you wanting me. Want to pay your church seat, eh?”
“What na kirk? St Andrew’s, say ye? Na, na, I dinna gang there. Dod! You dinna need to have a seat in ony kirk, for there are a’ kin o’ bodies that ca’ themselves preachers rinnin aboot. Says I to ane that pit maist impertinent questions to me about my saul—an us Scotch folk dinna show our hearts to every Jock and Tam—My man, ye pit me in mind o’ a finger-post, ye pint the way ye dinna gang yoursel. Ye see, I kent ocht o’ him.”
“That’s a good one,” exclaimed the man of the pen as he rubbed his left arm.
“Gin I had my way, there wad be a riddle afore every college door to try the coofs wha wad wag their heids in a poopit. I ken o’ some chuckie heads it wad hae thrown aside.”
“Not a bad idea. And what can I do for you? You’ll want an organ?”