[Mr. Parritch does not pursue the subject.
Mr. Havers (as a detachment of the Black Watch Highlanders conclude an exhibition of musical drill). Ye'll be the baiter o' haeing the Block Wetch hier the day. Man, they gie us a colour! It's verra pretty hoo nicely they can pairforrm the drill....An' noo them sojers is gaun to rin a bet race amang theirsels. This'll be an extry cawmpeteetion, I doot. (As the race is being run.) It's no a verra suitable dress for rinnin'—the spleughan—or "sporran", is it?—hairrts them tairible.
Mr. McKerr (contradictiously). The sporran does na hairrt them at a'.
Mr. Havers. Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'. (His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are dancing on a platform opposite.) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee laddie i' the meddle!
Mr. McKerr. Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'.... This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder. It'll gae to Jock Alister—him in the blue breeks.
Mr. Parr. Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.
Mr. Havers. Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did ye say his neem was? (To Miss Rose, "pawkily.") Ye'll hae an affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?
Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure). 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!
Mr. Havers (abashed). I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (Miss Rose shakes her head.) No? Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro' Paisley? (Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr. Havers returns to the foot-race.) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I tellt ye he'd——Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow, he's peckin' up tairible!
Mr. Parr. 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast—he's comin' on noo—he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!