from The Derk Isle

Dinna staund like a stookie! A man lowpit aff the train. We maun follae him!

I’ll bet ma breeks he’s up tae nae guid!

Oot the skirlin pan an intae the fire, aw richt!

Sugarellie! The door’s steekit!

We’re gubbit, Tarrie! He’ll lowse the ithers an syne the hail clanjamfrie wull be efter us!

Wouff! Wouff! Dae they no ken that Tintin’s in danger?

Murther, polis! I maun dae something!

Cud ye no jist dander throu the yett like me? Ye’re aye the superhero!

Gaun yersel, Tintin! Wham! Ane doon! Wham! An the tither!

Nisbet an Nesbit:
Yon’s an antrin thing, Nisbet …
Mair nor that, Nesbit, a queer an antrin thing.

Hoo come we’ve stapt? Lovanentie! Whaur’s Tintin?
I doot we’ve tint him…

The limmer! He’s gien us the slip, an joukit awa!
Mair nor that, he’s gien us the jouk, an slippit awa!

from The Merk o the Pharaoh


Jings! A cigar band! An the verra same as we fand i the Pharaoh’s tomb…It’s byordinar!

Crivvens, Tarrie, whit’ll we dae? We’re aw alane on a boobytrapt boat!

Puir sowl. He’s as daft as a yett on a windy day.

On the keevee, Tarrie! Dinna tyne the scent.

Sugarellie! He’s as radge as a gled-stung coo! Rin, Tarrie!


Ma maister! I’ll nivver see him again…

Nisbet an Nesbit:

Lovanentie! It’s the ticket inspector!
An we hinna got oor tickets naither!

Quick! He’ll no hae got faur!
Ay, an we’ll gie him whit for!

Professor Cameron Cartouche:

Mind, sic a grand discovery maun be keepit secret. Nae clishmaclaverin

Gin the papyrus is richt, the tomb o Pharaoh Kih-Oskh is richt here unner oor nebs!

Mr Scriven

It’s the revenge o the Britherhood. This arra is pizent wi radjgadji juice, a pizen that dings ye doitit.

Maharajah o Khlanjamfri

It gied me sic a fleg, that wanearthly soond!


Ya wee nyaff, stickin yer neb in whaur it’s no wantit!