"Look here, Scoodrach, if you call me she again, I'll kick you!"
"I didna ca' you she. I only said if she'd come ten the hoose aifter
she had the parritch--"
"Well, what did I say?"
"Say? Why, she got in a passion."
Whop! Flop!
The sound of a back-handed slap in the chest, followed by a kick, both
delivered by Kenneth Mackhai, the recipient being a red-headed,
freckled-faced lad of seventeen, who retaliated by making a sharp snatch
at the kicking foot, which he caught and held one half moment. The
result was startling.
Kenneth Mackhai, the sun-browned, well-knit, handsome son of "the
Chief," came down in a sitting position on the stones, and screwed up
his face with pain.
"Scood, you beggar!" he roared; "I'll serve you out for--"
"Ken, are you coming to breakfast?" cried a loud, severe voice from
fifty yards away.
"Coming, father!" shouted the lad, leaping up, giving himself a shake to
rearrange his dark green kilt, and holding up his fist threateningly at
the bare-legged, grinning lad before him. "Just you wait till after
breakfast, Master Scood, and I'll make you squint."
The lad ran up the steep slope to the garden surrounding the ancient
castle of Dunroe, which had been built as a stronghold somewhere about
the fourteenth century, and still stood solid on its rocky foundation; a
square, keep-like edifice, with a round tower at each corner,
mouldering, with portions of the battlements broken away, but a fine
monument still of the way in which builders worked in the olden time.
The portion Kenneth Mackhai approached had for inhabitants only the
jackdaws, which encumbered the broken stairs by the loopholes with their
nests; but, after passing beneath a gloomy archway and crossing the open
interior, he left the old keep by another archway, to enter the
precincts of the modern castle of Dunroe, a commodious building, erected
after the style of the old, and possessing the advantages of a roof and
floors, with large windows looking across the dazzling sea.
Kenneth entered a handsome dining-room, where the breakfast was spread,
and where his father, The Mackhai, a tall, handsome man of fifty, was
pacing angrily up and down.
"Sorry I kept you, father. Scood said there was a seal on the lower
rocks, and--"
"The scoundrel! How dare he?" muttered The Mackhai. "To take such a
mean advantage of his position. I will not suffer it. I'll--"
"I'm very sorry, father!" faltered Kenneth, crossing slowly toward his
frowning elder. "I did not mean to--"
"Eh! what, Ken, my boy?" cried The Mackhai, with his countenance
changing. "I've only just come in. Sit down, my lad. You must be
half-starved, eh?"
"I thought you were cross with me, sir."
"Cross? Angry? Not a bit. Why?"
"You said--"
"Tchah! nonsense! Thinking aloud. What did you say?--a seal?"
"Yes, father. Scood said there was one, but it had gone."
"Then you didn't shoot it? Well, I'm not sorry. They're getting scarce
now, and I like to see the old things about the old place. Hah!" he
continued, after a pause that had been well employed by both at the
amply-supplied, handsomely-furnished table; "and I like the old porridge
for breakfast. Give me some of that salmon, Ken. No; I'll have a
kipper."
"More coffee, please, father," said Ken, with his mouth full. "Have a
scone, father? They're prime."
"Gently with the butter, my boy. There is such a thing as bile."
"Is there, father?" said Kenneth, who was spreading the rich yellow
churning a full quarter of an inch thick.
"Is there, sir! Yes, there is. As I know to my cost. Ah!" he added,
with a sigh, and his face wrinkled and made him look ten years older;
"but there was a time when I did not know the meaning of the word!"
"Oh, I say, father," cried Kenneth merrily, "don't! You're always
pretending to be old, and yet you can walk me down stalking, and Long
Shon says you can make him sore-footed any day."
"Nonsense! nonsense!" said The Mackhai, smiling.
"Oh, but you can, father!" said Kenneth, with his mouth full. "And see
how you ran with that salmon yesterday, all among the stones."
"Ah, yes! I manage to hold my own; but I hope you'll husband your
strength better than I did, my boy," said The Mackhai, with a sigh.
"I only hope I shall grow into such a fine man!" cried Kenneth, with his
face lighting up, as he gazed proudly at his father. "Why, Donald
says--"
"Tut, tut, tut! Silence, you miserable young flatterer! Do you want to
make your father conceited? There, that will do."
"Coming fishing to-day, father?"
There was no answer.
The Mackhai had taken up a letter brought in that morning by one of the
gillies, and was frowning over it as he re-read its contents, and then
sat thoughtfully gazing out of the window across the glittering sea, at
the blue mountains in the distance, tapping the table with his fingers
the while.
"Wonder what's the matter!" thought Kenneth. "Some one wants some
money, I suppose."
The boy's face puckered up a little as he ceased eating, and watched his
father's face, the furrows in the boy's brow giving him a wonderful
likeness to the keen-eyed, high-browed representative of a fine old
Scottish clan.
"Wish I had plenty of money," thought Kenneth; and he sighed as he saw
his father's face darken.
Not that there was the faintest sign of poverty around, for the room was
tastily furnished in good old style; the carpet was thick, a silver
coffee-pot glistened upon the table, and around the walls were goodly
paintings of ancestral Mackhais, from the bare-armed, scale-armoured
chief who fought the Macdougals of Lome, down to Ronald Mackhai, who
represented Ross-shire when King William sat upon the throne.
"I can't help myself," muttered The Mackhai at last. "Here, Ken, what
were you going to do to-day?"
"I was going up the river after a salmon."
"Not to-day, my boy. Here, I've news for you. Mr Blande, my London
solicitor, writes me word that his son is coming down--a boy about your
age."
"Son--coming down? Did you invite him, father?"
"Eh? No: never mind that," said The Mackhai hastily. "Coming down to
stay with us a bit. Regular London boy. Not in very good health. You
must be civil to him, Ken, and show him about a bit."
"Yes, father," said Kenneth, who felt from his father's manner that the
coming guest was not welcome.
"He is coming by Glasgow, and then by the Grenadier. His father thinks
the sea will do him good. Go and meet him."
"Yes, father."
"Tell them to get a room ready for him."
"Yes, father."
"Be as civil to him as you can, and--Pah!"
That ejaculation, pah! came like an angry outburst, as The Mackhai gave
the table a sharp blow, and rose and strode out of the room.
Kenneth sat watching the door for a few moments.
"Father's savage because he's coming," said Kenneth, whose eyes then
fell upon a glass dish of marmalade, and, cutting a goodly slice of
bread, he spread it with the yellow butter, and then spooned out a
portion of the amber-hued preserve.
"Bother the chap! we don't want him here."
Pe-au, pe-au, came a wailing whistle through the open window.
"Ah, I hear you, old whaupie, but I can do it better than that," said
Kenneth to himself, as he repeated the whistle, in perfect imitation of
the curlews which abounded near.
The whistle was answered, and, with a good-tempered smile on his face,
Kenneth rose from the table, after cutting another slice of bread, and
laying it upon that in his plate, so as to form a sticky sandwich.
"Scood!" he cried from the window, and barelegged Scoodrach, who was
seated upon a rock right below, with the waves splashing his feet,
looked up and showed his white teeth.
"Catch!"
"All right."
Down went the bread and marmalade, which the lad caught in his blue
worsted bonnet, and was about to replace the same upon his curly red
head, but the glutinous marmalade came off on one finger. This sticky
finger he sucked as he stared at the bread, and, evidently coming to the
conclusion that preserve and pomade were not synonymous terms, he began
rapidly to put the sweet sandwich somewhere else.
"I wish you had kept it in your bonnet, Scood."
The boy looked up and laughed, his mouth busy the while.
"Father saw sax saumon in the black pool," he cried eagerly.
"Then they'll have to stop," said Kenneth gloomily.
"Eh?"
"There's a chap coming down from London."
"To fesh?"
"Suppose so. We've got to go and meet him."
"With ta pony?"
"No, the boat; coming by the Grenadier."
"Ou ay."
"It's a great bother, Scood."
"But it's a verra fine mornin' for a sail," said the boy, looking up and
munching away.
"But I didn't want to sail; I wanted to fish."
"The fush can wait, tat she can."
"Oh, you!" shouted Kenneth. "Wish I had something to throw at you."
"If she did, I'd throw it back," said Scoodrach, grinning.
"I should like to catch you at it. There, go and get the boat."
"Plenty of time."
"Never mind that; let's be off and have a good sail first, as we have to
go."
"Will she--will you tak' the gun?"
"Of course I shall. Take the lines too, Scood; we may get a mackerel."
The lad opened his large mouth, tucked in the last piece of marmalade,
and then leaped off the stone on to the rock.
"Scood!"
The boy stroked down his grey kilt, and looked up.
"Put on your shoes and stockings."
"What for?"
"Because I tell you. Because there's company coming. Be off!"
"She's got a big hole in her stocking, and ta shoe hurts her heel."
"Be off and put them on," roared Kenneth from the window. "I shall be
ready in a quarter of an hour."
Scood nodded, and began to climb rapidly over the buttress of rock which
ran down into the sea, the height to which the tide rose being marked by
an encrustation of myriads of acorn barnacles, among which every now and
then a limpet stood out like a boss, while below, in the clear water, a
thick growth of weed turned the rock to a golden brown, and changed the
tint of the transparent water.