"There was a venter locust at the schule the day," remarked Annie. I was brushing my boots at the bothy door, and the girls sat on the step and watched me. "A what?" I asked. "A venter locust. Ye paid a penny to get in, and Jim Jackson gaithered the pennies in the mannie's hat and got in for nothing, for he didna put his ain penny in." "What sort of show was it, Annie?" "He had a muckle doll wi' an awfu' ugly face, and he asked it questions." "Did it answer them?" "Aye. It opened its great big mooth." "There maybe was a gramaphone inside," suggested Gladys. "Jim Jackson said that it was the mannie that was speakin' a' the time," said Janet. "Jim Jackson was bletherin'," said Annie with scorn. "Aw watched 'im, and his mooth never moved a' the time." "Perhaps he was talking through his hat, Annie," I said. "He wasna," she cried, "for his hat was on the Mester's desk fu' o' pennies!" "Well," I ventured, "the proverb says that money talks, you know." "Weel," tittered Annie, "there wasna much money to talk, for the pennies was nearly a' hapennies!" "Aw dinna understand how that doll managed to speak," said Ellen, and I proceeded to explain the mysteries of ventriloquism to them. Then I told them my one ventriloquist yarn. A broken-down ventriloquist stopped at a village inn one hot day, and stared longingly through the bar door. He hadn't a cent in his pocket. He sat down on the bench and gazed wearily at a stray mongrel dog that had followed him for days. Suddenly inspiration came to him. He rose and walked into the bar. "A pint of beer, mister!" he cried, and pretended to fumble for his money, when the landlord placed the tankard on the bar counter. The dog looked up into his face. "Here, mister," said the dog, "ain't I going to get one?" The landlord started. "That's a remarkable animal," he said with staring eyes. "Pretty smart," said the ventriloquist indifferently. "I'll--I'll buy that dog," said the landlord eagerly; "I'll give you five pounds for him." The ventriloquist considered for a while. "All right," he said at length, "I hate to part with an old friend like him, but I must live, and I have no money." The landlord counted out the five sovereigns, and the ventriloquist drank up his beer and made for the door. "Better come round and take hold of the dog," he said, "or he'll follow me." The landlord lifted the bar-flap and took hold of the dog by the collar. At the door the ventriloquist looked back. The dog gazed at him. "You brute," it cried, "you've sold me for vulgar gold. I swear that I'll never speak again." I paused. "And, you know, girls, he never did." "Eh," cried Janet, "what a shame! The public-hoose mannie wud leather the puir beast to mak' it speak." "That's the real point of the story, Jan. A story is no good unless it leaves something to the imagination."