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"Yes, I did meet a man," responded the other readily, glad at having made an impression at last, "a man named McBess or some such name." "McBeth it would be," said old Andrew, "Allister McBeth, Catchach they call him. He's a danderin' bit o' a firebrand." "Were you speakin' to him?" Wee Andra shot out the question and took refuge in a huge gulp of tea.
The back row arose in a body, and went roaring after him, for Catchach in a rage was better than all the patriotic demonstrations on earth. The meeting broke up in complete disorder. The hour was unconscionably late, and the remainder of the long inspiriting programme had perforce to be omitted.
"Ah, those foolish lads, hoots, toots, what a noise!" said Duncan apologetically, for he recognised Donald's voice and Sandy's, too, in the uproarious shouts of laughter. But as they came nearer the smile faded from John Egerton's face. He caught the word Catchach, and suddenly the whole truth flashed upon him.
"By Jove, I will tell it," said Donald Neil, when the conversation had become general again, "I'll tell Catchach!" "Tell him what?" inquired Wee Andra. "That the minister speaks Gaelic." A shriek of laughter from those who heard greeted this announcement, and Wee Andra thumped his chum upon the back in the exuberance of his delight. "Great head, Don!" he roared.
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