"Aye, that's weel enough! But sometimes the t'ane can't be done without the t'ither. And ye'll soon be gettin' credit for that 'ither, or my name's no' Sandy Dunlop!"
"Sandy Dunlop," as he called himself, and as his friends called him, did not always indulge in broad Scotch; that, in his own estimation, would have been "throwing pearls before swine." He reserved it for his moments of expansion, for the seasons of unrestrained talk with the few in whose company he did expand; especially when, like Roland, they were of Scottish lineage, and could appreciate the beloved old Doric, his affection for which was one of the soft spots in a somewhat hard and caustic nature. Doubtless this point of sympathy was one of the attractions that drew him to Roland. But "Sandy Dunlop" was a shrewd judge of character.
Roland willingly threw down his pen, and settled himself back in his chair, for one of the rambling talks which offered a little recreation to his rather high-strung temperament.
"D'ye ken?" pursued the old man, "yon was a grand, simple kind o' way they used to have o' settlin' their disputes! nane o' yer vile newspaper calumniations or underhan' plottin's, but just a good honest tussle, and done wi' it."
"But you don't suppose I'm going to calumniate anybody, I hope!" said Roland, opening his eyes.
"You, laddie, deed na'! Weel I ken that," replied the old man, with a sort of chuckling grunt. "It's just some o' thae poleetical articles I've been readin', till I'm sick o' it all! When will ye get yer Brotherhood ideas into party politics? Tell me that, lad, if ye can!"
Roland smiled and sighed.
"Aye, aye! the warld'll tak' a wheen o' makin' over yet, an' it'll no be you nor me that'll do it. However, ye might read me some o' yer screeds," he added, looking at the young man with much the same air of grim patronage with which a sagacious old mastiff might regard a well-meaning but rash young terrier, attempting impossibilities.
As he spoke, the door below closed with a bang, and a snatch of an operatic air, hummed sotto voce, was borne to their ears, as rapid footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs.
"Here's that harum-scarum callant," said Mr. Dunlop, looking somewhat glum. A light tap at the door was scarcely answered by Roland's "Come in," when it was followed by the entrance of a young man of blonde complexion and rather slight figure, dressed much more fashionably than Roland. His blue eyes, fair hair, and Teutonic accent plainly bespoke his origin, and his greeting showed him to be on the most unceremonious terms with Roland, as he jauntily entered, nodding familiarly to the old Scot.