_Tonal._ "Surely I was."

_Tugal._ "Ay, ay! Maybe you was never on poard too, after thus----"

_Tonal._ "I dud."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: NON BEN (LOMOND) TROVATO.

_Rory (fresh from the hills)._ "Hech, mon! Ye're loa.s.sin' a' yer watter!!"

_Aungus._ "Haud yer tongue, ye feul! Ett's latt oot to stoap the laddies frae ridin' ahint!!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "NOTHING LIKE LEATHER"

_Bookseller_ (_to Lanarkshire country gentleman who had brought his back numbers to be bound_). "Would you like them done in 'Russia' or 'Morocco,' sir?"

_Old Gentleman._ "Na, never maind aboot Rooshy or Moroccy. I'll just hae 'em boond in Glasgy here!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TROUBLES OF STALKING

_Irate Gillie_ (_on discovering in the distance, for the third time that morning, a "brute of a man" moving about in his favourite bit of "forest"_). "Oh! deil take the people! Come awa', Muster Brown, sir; _it's just Peekadilly!!!_"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A FALLEN a.s.s

_Indignant Gillie_ (_to Jones, of London, who has by mistake killed a hind_). "I thoucht ony fule ken't it was the stags that had the horns!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: BONCHIENIE

_Young Lady Tourist_ (_caressing the hotel terrier, Bareglourie, N.B._).

"Oh, Binkie is his name! He seems inclined to be quite friendly with me."

_Waiter._ "Oo, aye, miss, he's no vera parteec'lar wha he taks oop wi!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CANNY"

_First North Briton._ "'T's a fine day, this?"

_Second ditto._ "No ill, ava."

_First ditto._ "Ye'll be travellin'?"

_Second ditto._ "Weel, maybe I'm no."

_First ditto._ "Gaun t'Aberdeen, maybe?"

_Second ditto._ "Ye're no faur aff't!!"

[_Mutually satisfied, each goes his respective way_

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PURCHASING LIMIT

_Mr. Steinsen_ (_our latest millionaire--after his third fruitless stalk_). "Now, look here, you rascal! if you can't have the brutes tamer, I'm hanged if I don't sack you!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: GROWING POPULARITY OF THE HIGHLANDS

_Mrs. Smith_ (_of Brixton_). "Lor', Mr. Brown, I 'ardly knoo yer! Only think of our meetin' _'ere_, this year, instead of dear old Margit! An'

I suppose that's the costume you go _salmon-stalking_ in?"]

MORE SKETCHES FROM SCOTLAND

ON A CALLANDER CHAR-A-BANC.

SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few pa.s.sengers bound for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the coach "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when the driver will consider them sufficiently wet to start._

_The Head Boots (to the driver)._ There's another to come yet; he'll no be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye, sir, plenty of room on the second seats.

_The Surly Pa.s.senger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the ap.r.o.n._) Here, driver, just look at this ap.r.o.n--it's sopping wet!

_The Driver (tranquilly)._ Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet domp.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it."]

_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got a _dry_ one somewhere?

_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.

_The Surly P. (with a snort)._ At Callander! Much good that is! (_With crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me I'd better get inside the boot at once!

_The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession)._ Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.