"Tune up your bagpipes, Sawnie," cried Harry. "We are going to have a tournament. Take a smell, Paganini?"
"Noa," answered the Italian, shaking his head, "noa drink—a."
"Then you're a bigger fool than you look," cried Idler, stumbling tipsily. "(Hic) I'm losing control of my curves."
"What tunes have you got in that box?" asked Harry of the organ-grinder, while Logan eyed him grimly with a look of scorn.
"What-a sing-a? 'Anni Runi.'"
"That will do. Grind away. Hold on. Get a full breath, Sawnie. Now for a medley."
The organ-grinder began turning his crank, but the Scotchman sulked in the corner.
"Stop there, Paganini. False start. Try again."
"I'll accompany nae uncivilized barrel-box, that's only fit to dandle idiot bairns wi'."
"What are you talking about?" cried Idler. "Uncivilized! You wildman of the hills! A red outlaw in his war paint couldn't look and act more outlandish than you do."