“Every man to his taste, please your honour,” answered Duncan MacAlpine; “let ilka ane please her nainsel,”—hauling up a screed half a yard lang; “ilka man to his taste, please your honour, Lovetenant Todrick.”
“’Od, man,” said I to him; “’od, man, ye’re a deacon at telling a story. Ye’re a queer hand. Weel, what cam next?”
“What think ye should come next?” quo’ Thomas, drily.
“I’m sure I dinna ken,” answered I.
“Weel,” said he, “I’ll tell; but where was I at?”
“Ou, at the observe of Lovetenant Todrick, or what they ca’ed him, about the tripe; and the answer of Duncan MacAlpine on that head, that ‘ilka man had his ain taste.’”
“‘Vera true,’ said Lovetenant Todrick; ‘but lift it out a’thegither on that dish, till I get my specs on; for never since I was born, did I ever see before boiled tripe with buttons and button-holes intil’t.’”
At this I set up a loud laughing, which I couldna help, though it was like to split my sides; but Thomas Burlings bade me whisht till I heard him out.
“‘Buttons and button-holes!’ quo’ Duncan MacAlpine. ‘Look again, wi’ yer specs; for ye’re surely wrang, Lovetenant Todrick.’”
“Buttons and button-holes! and ’deed I am surely right, Duncan,’ answered Lovetenant Todrick, taking his specs deliberately aff the brig o’ his nose, and faulding them thegither, as he put them, first into his morocco case, and syne into his pocket. ‘Howsomever, Duncan MacAlpine, I’ll pass ye ower for this time, gif ye take my warning, and for the future ware yer paymoney on wholesome butcher’s meat, like a Christian, and no be trying to delude your ain stamick, and your offisher’s een, by haddin’ up, on a fork, such a heathenish make-up for a dish, as the leg of a pair o’ buckskin breeches!’”