Guess there's no twelve-pound look about him.

_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,