At a certain Scottish dinner it was found that every one had contributed to the evening's entertainment but a certain Doctor MacDonald.
"Come, come, Doctor MacDonald," said the chairman, "we cannot let you escape."
The doctor protested that he could not sing.
"My voice is altogether unmusical, and resembles the sound caused by the act of rubbing a brick along the panels of a door."
The company attributed this to the doctor's modesty. Good singers, he was reminded, always needed a lot of pressing.
"Very well," said the doctor, "if you can stand it I will sing."
Long before he had finished his audience was uneasy.
There was a painful silence as the doctor sat down, broken at length by the voice of a braw Scot at the end of the table.
"Mon," he exclaimed, "your singin's no up to much, but your veracity's just awful. You're richt aboot that brick."
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