of weak intellect was a hanger-on in Sir John Maxwell
of Pollok’s household—and what great house is there where there is not a
Jock or other to turn the spit?
On one occasion a violent dispute
had arisen between the cook and Jock; and cooky, not content with
discharging a goodly portion of vituperative language against the
spit-turner, struck him with a shovel that she happened to have in her
hand.
The enraged Jock seized hold of a
large three-pronged fork, and the disher of dainties took to her
locomotives, pursued by the infuriated turn-spit with the fork hard at her
heels. Round and round the park in front of the mansion-house did the
pursuer follow the cook, till she was fairly out of breath, when she
turned round, and, putting her hands on her sides, smilingly said
"Man, Jock, that’s been a race !" To
which Jock, grounding his arms, thereupon replied:
"Hech, ye may say’t !"
