“I built that bridge, with me own two hands, stone by stone, plank by plank. Took five years. I nearly drowned, twice! But do they call me McGregor the Bridge Builder? No!”
He swigs his beer, scowling bitterly.
“And that church up on the hill!” the old drunk continues. “I raised that church from foundation to steeple, with me own two hands, stone by stone, plank by plank! Damn near fell to me death, six times! But I got it done! And do they call me McGregor the Church Builder? No!”
He swigs his beer again, scowling bitterly.
“And the beautiful cobblestone street from the bridge to town hall! I laid that with me own two hands, stone by stone! I mixed and carried 1500 buckets of mortar! Took three years! But do they call me McGregor the the Road Builder? No…”
He finishes the last swig of his beer, trembling with fury.
