“Then what is it you do know, or think yo' know?” David asked irritably.
The little man nodded and chuckled.
“Naethin' ava, laddie, naethin' worth the mention. Only aiblins the Killer'll be caught afore sae lang.”
David smiled incredulously, wagging his head in offensive scepticism.
“Yo'll catch him yo'self, I s'pose, you and yer Wullie? Tak' a chair on to the Marches, whistle a while, and when the Killer comes, why! pit a pinch o' salt upon his tail—if he had one.”
At the last words, heavily punctuated by the speaker, the little man stopped his rubbing as though shot.
“What wad ye mean by that?” he asked softly.
“What wad I?” the boy replied.
“I dinna ken for sure,” the little man answered; “and it's aiblins just as well for you, dear lad”—in fawning accents—“that I dinna.” He began rubbing and giggling afresh. “It's a gran' thing, Wullie, to ha' a dutiful son; a shairp lad wha has no silly sens o' shame aboot sharpenin' his wits at his auld dad's expense. And yet, despite oor facetious lad there, aiblins we will ha' a hand in the Killer's catchin', you and I, Wullie—he! he!” And the great dog at his feet wagged his stump tail in reply.
David rose from his chair and walked across the room to where his father sat.