“Was ye seekin’ for ony body the nicht? Eh wow, man, but it’s cauld!”
“Who may you be, my friend?” said I, edging off from my unpromising acquaintance.
“Wha may I be?” replied the other: “that’s a gude ane! Gosh, d’ye no ken me? Au’m Geordie Dowie, the town bauldy, that’s as weel kent as the Provost hissell!”
To say the truth, Geordie was a very truculent-looking character to be an innocent. However, imbeciles of this description are usually harmless.
“And what have you got to say to me, Geordie?”
“If ye’re the man I think ye are,
And ye’re name begins wi’ a D,
Just tak ye tae yer soople shanks,
And tramp alang wi’ me,”
quavered the idiot, who, like many others, had a natural turn for poetry.
“And where are we going to, Geordie, my man?” said I in a soothing voice.
“Ye’ll find that when we get there,” replied the bauldy.