“Me sing!” cried Tammy, “I canna even sing a psalm, far less a sang; but if ye like, I’ll tell you a story.”
“Come awa then, a story is next best; but haud a’ your tongues there, you chiels,” cried Robin, giving the wink to his cronies; “we a’ ken Tammy is unco gude at telling a story, mair especially if it be about himsel.”
“Aweel,” said Tammy, clearing his throat, “I’ll tell you what happened to me when I was ance in Embro’. I fancy ye a’ ken the Calton hill?”
“Whatna daftlike question is that, when ye ken very weel we hae a’ been in Embro’ as weel as yoursel?”
“Weel then,” began Tammy, “I was coming ower the hill—”
“What hill?” asked Jamie Wilson. “Corstorphine hill?”
“Corstorphine fiddlestick!” exclaimed Tammy. “Did ye no hear me say the Calton hill at the first, which, ye ken, is thought there the principal hill?”
“What’s that ye’re saying about Principal Hill?” asked Robin. “I kent him weel ance in a day.”
“Now, Tammy,” cried Willie Walkinshaw, “can ye no gang on wi’ your story, without a’ this balwavering and nonsense about coming ower ane o’ our Professors; my faith, it’s no an easy matter to come ower some o’ them.”
“Very weel,” said Tammy, a little angrily, “I’ll say nae mair about it, but just drap the hill.”