"Ah ken you," said Rab Ha' the Gala Glutton, staring sharply at the Engine Driver, "ye're Wattie McNab, ye're a bloody Sunday Driver, ye huv a wee clapped-oot Mini and crawl up the straight past Elibank at 20 mile an oor! ye shoodnae be allowed oan the road, never mind the Rail Road! maunderin like an auld wummin – an ye wear a Hat when ye're oot in thon wee sardine tin, daen yer best tae thwart emdy in a hurry – jist cos ye've naebdy tae visit yersel, cos yer Jeemmy Nae Pals! – – hoo the fuck did ye ever get tae become an Engine Driver? oh aye, ah geddit! cos yer the very spit o Arthur Askey in The Love Match, thon's hoo ye goat it, hoo wee ur ye onywey? ur ye kneelin doon or ur ye three fit tall? in the name o the Wee Man, there shud be a law against it, against midgets and dwarves and geriatric coffin-dodgers bein allowed tae get intae the Drivers Cab or," and he took a deep breath before delivering his final retractation: "takkin a 1959 Morris Mini Minor oan the Public Highway. . . . .in a Hat!" but Driver McNab had heard enough of Rab's hobbyhorse: "aye, weel, in atween force-feedin yer face an forcibly-evacuatin yer bowels, Rab Ha', ye've never done a day's work in yer life, which gies ye plenty time tae hae a guid gowk at them as does; it's weel kent that yer the Phantom Fingerer o Auld Gauly Toon, the Knicker Snatcher wha wanders aboot in the wee sma' oors tae plunder ony washin left oot ower nicht," at which Fat Rab adopted a butteraceous tone: "aw cumon, Maister McNab, ah wis only joshin ye, ye ken ah've a lot o respect fer Engine Drivers, ah wanted tae be ane when ah wis a wee laddie, but thon Doctor 'Death' Beeching closed the Waverley Line an ah hud tae gie up ma ambition, an onyhoo ah wis acquitted fair an square when thon lassie Friday, a Wuddentop wha thocht she wis Nancy Drew tried tae entrap me, ye'll mind that," and McNab nodded, sagely: "aye, WPC Gertie Mountcastle felt yer collar aw richt, but ye slipped yer sleeves and did a runner up The Brae, leavin yer jaicket ahint ye, an it wis only cos yer trial wis in Jethart ye goat aff, why, even the Sheriff could see ye wis as guilty as sin – some story that, leavin yer jaiket oan the back o yer chair in The Legion while ye went fer a Jimmy Riddle, an forgettin a' aboot it efterwards, sayin ye went hame in yer shirt sleeves, whiles The Beast fae The East brocht the Arctic Winter Blasts tae the Borders – if ye'd been tried in Gaulie like it used tae be ye'd hae been convicted, nae doot aboot it, sae dinnae gaun aboot proclaimin yer innocence – Jethart Justice? my eye!