“Than, if ye maun hae't, the folk in Lunnun are a' clean wud about this bit job in the north here.”
“Clean wood! what's that?”
“Ou, just real daft—neither to haud nor to bind—a' hirdy-girdy—clean through ither—the deil's ower Jock Wabster.”
“But what does all this mean? or what business have I with the devil or Jack Webster?”
“Umph!” said Andrew, looking extremely knowing, “it's just because—just that the dirdum's a' about yon man's pokmanty.”
“Whose portmanteau? or what do you mean?”
“Ou, just the man Morris's, that he said he lost yonder: but if it's no your honour's affair, as little is it mine; and I mauna lose this gracious evening.”
And, as if suddenly seized with a violent fit of industry, Andrew began to labour most diligently.