“David, ye're to tak' the Cheviot lot o'er to Grammoch-town at once,” he answered shortly:
“Yo' mun tak' 'em yo'sel', if yo' wish 'em to go to-day.”
“Na,” the little man answered; “Wullie and me, we're busy. Ye're to tak' 'em, I tell ye.”
“I'll not,” David replied. “If they wait for me, they wait till Monday,” and with that he left the room.
“I see what 'tis,” his father called after him; “she's give ye a tryst at Kenmuir. Oh, ye randy David!”
“Yo' tend yo' business; I'll tend mine,” the boy answered hotly.
Now it happened that on the previous day Maggie had given him a photograph of herself, or, rather, David had taken it and Maggie had demurred. As he left the room it dropped from his pocket. He failed to notice his loss, but directly he was gone M'Adam pounced on it.
“He! he! Wullie, what's this?” he giggled, holding the photograph into his face. “He! he! it's the jade hersel', I war'nt; it's Jezebel!”
He peered into the picture.
“She kens what's what, I'll tak' oath, Wullie. See her eyes—sae saft and languishin'; and her lips—such lips, Wullie!” He held the picture down for the great dog to see: then walked out of the room, still sniggering, and chucking the face insanely beneath its cardboard chin.