_Mr. Havers._ Man, it's knockin' against them at every stride they tak'.

(_His attention wanders to a Highland Fling, which three small boys are dancing on a platform opposite._) He's an awfu' bonnie dauncer that wee laddie i' the meddle!

_Mr. McKerr._ Na sae awfu' bonnie, he luiks tae much at his taes. Yon on the richt is the laddie o' the lote! He disna move his boady at a'....

This'll be the Half Mile Handicap they're stairting for down yonder.

It'll gae to Jock Alister--him in the blue breeks.

_Mr. Parr._ Yon grup-luikin' tyke? I canna thenk it.

_Mr. Havers._ Na, it'll be yon bald-heided man in broon. He's verra enthusiastic. He's ben rinnin' in a' the races, I obsairve. "Smeth" did ye say his neem was? (_To Miss Rose, "pawkily"._) Ye'll hae an affaictionate regaird for that neem, I'm thenking, Mess Rawse?

_Miss Rose (with maidenly displeasure)._ 'Deed, an I'm no unnerstanding why ye should thenk ony sic a thing!

_Mr. Havers (abashed)._ I beg your pairrdon. I don't know hoo it was I gethered Smeth was your ain neem. (_Miss Rose shakes her head._) No?

Then maybe ye'll be acquaint with a Mester Alexawnder Smeth fro'

Paisley? (_Miss Rose is not, nor apparently desires to be, and Mr.

Havers returns to the foot-race._) The baldheid's leadin' them a', I tellt ye he'd----Na, he's gien up! it'll be the little block fellow, he's peckin' up tairible!

_Mr. Parr._ 'Twull no be him. Yon lang chap has an easy jobe o't. Ye'll see he'll jist putt a spairrt on at yon faur poast--he's comin' on noo--he's.... Losh! he's only thirrd after a'; he didna putt the spairrt on sune eneugh; that was the gran' fau't he made!

_Mr. Havers._ They'll be begenning the wrustling oot yon in the centre....(_As the compet.i.tors grip._) Losh! that's no the way to wrustle; they shouldna left the ither up; they're no allowed to threp!

_Mr. McKerr._ That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at a' aboot it!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "That's jist the game, I'm telling ye; ye know naething at a' aboot it!"]

_Mr. Havers._ I'd sthruggle baiter'n that mysel', it's no great wrustling at a', merely bairrns' play!

_Mr. McKerr (as a corpulent elderly gentleman appears, in very pink tights)._ Ye'll see some science noo, for hier's McBannock o'

Balwhuskie, the chawmpion.

_Mr. Havers (disenchanted)._ Wull yon be him in the penk breeks. Man, but he's awfu' stoot for sic wark!

_Mr. McKerr._ The wecht of him's no easy put doon. The rest are boys to him.

_Mr. Parr._ I doot the little dairk fellow'll hae him ... it's a gey sthruggle.

_Mr. McKerr._ He's not doon yet. Wull ye bait s.e.xpence against McBannock, Mester Pairritch?

_Mr. Parr. (promptly)._ Aye, wull I--na, he's got the dairk mon doon. I was jist mindin' the sword-daunce, sae the bait's aff. (_Three men in full Highland costume step upon the platform and stand, proud and impa.s.sive, fronting the grand stand, while the judges walk round them, making careful notes of their respective points._) What wull _they_ be aboot?

_Mr. McKerr._ It'll be the prize for the mon who's the best dressed Hielander at his ain expense. I'm thenkin' they'll find it no verra easy to come to a deceesion.

_Mr. Parr._ Deed, it's no sae deeficult; 'twill be the mon in the centre, sure as deith!

_Mr. Havers._ Ye say that because he has a' them gowd maidles hing on his jocket!

_Mr. Parr_. (_loftily_). I pay no attention to the maidles at a'. I'm sayin' that Dougal Macrae is the best dressed Hielander o' the three.

_Mr. Havers._ It'll no be Macrae at a'. Jock McEwan, that's furthest west, 'll be the mon.

_Mr. Parr._ (_dogmatically_). It'll be Macrae, I'm tellin' ye. He has the nicest kelt on him that iver I sa'!

_Mr. Havers._ It's no the _kelt_ that diz it, 'tis jist the way they pit it on. An' Macrae'll hae his tae faur doon, a guid twa enches too low, it is.

_Mr. Parr._ Ye're a' wrang, the kelt is on richt eneugh!

_Mr. Havers._ I know fine hoo a kelt should be pit an, though I'm no Hielander mysel', and I'll ask ye, Mess Rawse, if Dougal Macrae's kelt isn't too lang; it's jist losin his knees a' thegither, like a la.s.sie he looks in it!

[_Miss Rose declines, with some stiffness, to express an opinion on so delicate a point._

_Mr. Parr. (recklessly)._ I'll pit a s.e.xpence on Macrae wi' ye, come noo!

_Mr. Havers._ Na, na, pit cawmpetent jedges on to deceede, and they'll be o' my opeenion; but I'll no bait wi' ye.

_Mr. Parr. (his blood up)._ Then I'll hae a s.e.xpence on 't wi you, Mester McKerrow!

_Mr. McKerr._ Nay, I'm for Macrae mysel'.... An' we're baith in the richt o't too, for they've jist gien him the bit red flag--that means he's got firsst prize.

_Mr. Parr. (to Mr. Havers, with reproach)._ Man, if ye'd hed the speerit o' your opeenions, I'd ha' won s.e.xpence aff ye by noo!

_Mr. Havers (obstinately)._ I canna thenk but that Macrae's kelt was too lang--prize or no prize. I'll be telling him when I see him that he looked like a la.s.sie in it.

_Mr. Parr. (with concern)._ I wouldna jist advise ye to say ony sic a thing to him. These Hielanders are awfu' prood; and he micht tak' it gey ill fro' ye!

_Mr. Havers._ I see nae hairrm mysel' in jist tellin' him, in a pleesant, daffin-like way, that he looked like a la.s.sie in his kelt. But there's nae tellin' hoo ye may offend some fowk; an' I'm thenking it's no sae verra prawbable that I'll hae the oaportunity o' saying onything aboot the maitter to him.

AWKWARD FOR HIM.--_Tam._ "I'm sayin', man, my cairt o' hay's fa'en ower.

Will ye gie 's a haund up wi' 't?" _Jock._ "'Deed will I. But ye'll be in nae hurry till I get tae the end o' the raw?" _Tam._ "Ou no. I'm in nae hurry, but I doot my faither 'll be wearyin'." _Jock._ "An' whaur's yer faither?" _Tam._ "He's in below the hay!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MISTAKEN IDENt.i.tY"

SCENE--_Northern Meeting at Inverness._ PERSONS REPRESENTED--Ian Gorm _and_ Dougald Mohr, _gillies_. Mr. Smith, _of London_.

_First Gillie._ "Wull yon be the MacWhannel, Ian Gorm?"

_Second ditto._ "No!! Hes nae-um is Muster s.m.u.th! And he ahl-ways wears the kult--and it is foohl that you aar, Tougalt Mohr!!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: (LOCH) FYNE GRAMMAR

(_A Sad Fact for the School Board_)

_Tugal._ "Dud ye'll ever see the _I-oo-na_ any more before?"