‘Dae ye nae ken?’ spluttered Hamish, spilling whisky on his sporran. ‘I cannae be tha’ mush clerrer.' Bronco frowned at him.
‘Well, gee whizz,’ he said. ‘I’m havin’ the darndest time tryin’ a foller yer. Could’ya speak a liddle slower, pardner?’
‘Ah, tae hell with ye,’ muttered Hamish.
‘I believe what our Caledonian friend is attempting to convey,’ lisped Archibald over the rim of his teacup, ‘is that he is somewhat dissatisfied with the manner in which he is being addressed by your good self. Is that right, old chap?’
‘Aye,’ the red-haired drunkard grumbled. ‘An i’s no jus’ Yankie-boy, neither. Ye’s all a shoor o’ racists.’ Before he could elaborate, however, the conversation was interrupted by the late arrival of Ahmed.