Mr. Havers (disenchanted). Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man, but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!
Mr. McKerr. The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to him.
Mr. Parr. I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey sthruggle.
Mr. McKerr. He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait sexpence against McBannock, Mester Pairritch?
Mr. Parr. (promptly). Aye, wull I—na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I was jist mindin the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (Three men in full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and impassive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them, making careful notes of their respective points.) What wull they be aboot?
Mr. McKerr. It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin they'll find it no verra easy to come to a deceesion.
Mr. Parr. Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the centre, sure as deith!
Mr. Havers. Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on his jocket!
Mr. Parr. (loftily). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.
Mr. Havers. It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furrthest west, 'll be the mon.