Mr. Parr. (dogmatically). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!
Mr. Havers. It's no the kelt that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low, it is.
Mr. Parr. Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!
Mr. Havers. I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a lassie he looks in it!
[Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on so delicate a point.
Mr. Parr. (recklessly). I'll pit a sexpence on Macrae wi' ye, come noo!
Mr. Havers. Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.
Mr. Parr. (his blood up). Then I'll hae a sexpence on 't wi you, Mester McKerrow!
Mr. McKerr. Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag—that means he's got firsst prize.