"I expect they'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae." "Eh, then," I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward?
If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between here and Creetown!" The poacher laughed.
"Ay, maybe," he said.

"But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae to be runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering your troosers wi' in the seat!" "Eh, Harry," said Mac, "it's God's blessings ye did no put on yer kilt the nicht!" He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I did not, I'm telling ye.
And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby.
"We're pinched, for sure, Mac," I said.
"Eh, and if we are we are," he said, philosophically.

"What's the fine for poaching, Harry ?" We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak.

But the poacher whispered.
"It's all richt," he said.

"It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine." So it proved.