_Hero_ (_dashing up and dismounting_). Wal, I wanter know. Say, ain't you the peach I useter see from my window in Thrums? _Heroine_ (_coyly_). Havers! _Hero_ (_not to be outdone_), Dagont! [_She strolls away with her chin in the air, her shoes and stockings in her hands, and the famous red light in her eye. She goes behind a tree, and the_ Hero, _thinking she has retired there to greet sadly, follows to console her. However, he discovers that she is merely resuming her footgear, and he retreats modestly._] _Hero_ (_rolling his eyes wildly to denote love_). A snod bit lassie, that. I mean to say--I--ay! Juist so! Ay, ou ay! _Heroine_ (_returning with her shoes on_). For the love of Mike--I mean Losh keep's!--are you still here? _Hero._ That's so. I wanter put you wise about me. I ain't no boob, as you seemter think. You can bet your rubbers on that. Maybe you're thinkin' that I'm but a puir laddie. Wal, let _me_ tell _you_ you're guessin' wrong. I'm an author--I do writin' stunts. And if I don't swell around in new pants all afternoon it's only because I have to keep all my cheques among the crumbs in my tobacco pouch. I _have_ to do it. All the best Scots writers do it. We call it Arcadian Mixture. _Heroine._ Guess that rollers out the course of true love some. But let _me_ tell _you_ there's another feller after me--a puir feckless body of a villain. And, Losh preserve us, here he comes! [_The_ Villain _enters. He looks rather like a revue-producer who has seen better nights. The_ Hero, _overcome by bashfulness at being discovered in conversation with a female, conceals himself behind his accent._] _Villain._ See here, gal, you just gotter marry me. _Heroine._ Shucks! I should say, Dinna blether, ma mannie. [_The_ Hero _creeps cautiously out of ambush._] _Villain_ (_caressingly_). I have always loved my little Mary. _Hero_ (_subtly ironic_). Imphm! Imphm! Ou ay, imphm! _Villain_ (_surprised but finding a way_). Oh, the dears! oh, the darlings! _Hero_ (_bewildered_). What's all that blatherskite, any old way? _Villain_ (_privily drawing bludgeon_). It was Sneeky Hobart who never went to kirk again after they substituted tin plates for the usual cloth collecting-bags. _Hero_ (_perplexed and off his guard_). Guess you've gone bughouse, sonny. I mean, I'm no quick in the uptak'---- _Villain._ Are ye no? (_brandishing bludgeon_). Well, I am! (_He fells the_ Hero _senseless to the ground._) And noo, lassie, I can sorter concentrate on you. _Heroine_ (_in the most ladylike way_). Help! oh, help! _Villain._ Say, you don't seemter freeze on to me, somehow. But you must and shall be mine! Come awa', lassie. [_He seizes her and she resists. Meanwhile the_ Hero, _who fell on to a clump of genuine thistles, makes a superbly-rapid recovery from his unconsciousness._] _Villain_ (_pausing to mop his brow_). Say, you'll got my goat for sure if you kick up like this, lassie.