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"I canna say ye're altogether wrang, but whaur are they the noo?" "Looking for you in the glen, I believe. But which of you is Long Pete?" The man he had met first said it was his name, and Foster resumed: "Then I imagine the fellow with the gun means to declare that you struck him." "He would!" Pete remarked, grinning.
Why, mon, yon's the place whaur ye get a packet o' fags, a bar o' chocolate, a soft drink and salvation for twenty-five cents." Yes; we get all that in the Y.M.C.A. huts where the padre toils and the layman sweats day and night for the well-being of the soldier men. In some of the huts it is actually possible to get a bath. It is always possible to get dry.
'Ony frien' o' yours, laddie, she replied, qualifying her words only with the addition 'gin he be a frien'. Whaur is he noo? 'He's up at Miss Naper's. 'Hoots! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye? Betty! 'Na, na, grannie. The Napers are frien's o' his. We maunna interfere wi' them. I'll gang up mysel' ance I hae had my brakfast. 'Weel, weel, laddie. Eh! I'm blythe to see ye!
"Nae mair o' that, Jock," says I. "Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune," an' there I stack, for I saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. And sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an' to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. "Whaur do ye pit up, Jock?" I said.
"It's nane else," answered the engineer as he stepped down from his cab and shook hands warmly. "Hoo are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye been murderin' the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye've been chasin' him these mony years." "Not much murdering," replied Hemenway. "I had a queer trip this time away up the Nepisiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don't you?"
As sune 's it comes to ony fechtin', up he gets, an' gangs stridin' aboot the flure; an' whiles he maks a claucht at 's claymore; an' faith! ance he maist cawed aff my heid wi' 't, for he had made a mistak aboot whaur I was sittin'." "What's a claymore?" "A muckle heelan' braidswoord, my leddy. Clay frae gladius verra likly; an' more 's the Gaelic for great: claymore, great sword.
'This is whaur ye left me this time last year, Kirsty, he said; left me wi' my Maker to mak a man o' me. It was 'maist makin me ower again! There was a low stone just visible among the heather; Kirsty seated herself upon it. Francis threw himself among the heather, and lay looking up in her face. 'That mother o' yours is 'maist ower muckle for ye, Francie! said Kirsty.
"Whaur I winna tell, an' whaur you nor nae ither body s' get him. An' ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an' gien ye gang on speirin', you an' me winna be lang freen's." As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.
On the whole, this is a Scottish landscape, although not so noble as the best in Scotland; and by an odd coincidence, the population is, in its way, as Scottish as the country. They have abrupt, uncouth, Fifeshire manners, and accost you, as if you were trespassing, an 'Ou'st-ce que vous allez? only translatable into the Lowland 'Whaur ye gaun? They keep the Scottish Sabbath.
Now there were reasons why Malcolm should not be unwilling to tell the strange wild story requested of him, and he commenced it at once, but modified the Scotch of it considerably for the sake of the unaccustomed ears. When it was ended Clementina said nothing; Annie Mair said "Hech, sirs!" and Lizzy with a great sigh, remarked, "The deil maun be in a'thing whaur God hasna a han', I'm thinkin'."
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