_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 bald-heid'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 competitors 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! [Illustration: "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 sexpence 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 impassive, 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 furrthest 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'!