“The Bailie? what’s he doing in there?”
“Weel, he—he came to arrest ye for debt,” glibly lied the old man. “So I told him to wait in there till ye came hame, an’ noo he’s my prisoner; that’s a’, Robbie.”
Rob grasped his hand gratefully. “Ye’re a true friend, John Anderson. Let me see, how much do I owe him?”
John backed quickly away from him. “Nay, nay, laddie!” he said decidedly. “I havena anither penny.”
“Neither have I,” laughed Rob ruefully. “So I’ll leave ye to get him out the best way ye can; he’s your prisoner, not mine. I’d like to pitch him down stairs. Come on, John, between us we ought to manage the old Shylock.”
“Nay, nay, Robbie,” he retorted dryly. “Take my word for it, we’d hae our hands full.”
“Weel, I’ll get into the rest of my clothes, for I’m due in society,” yawned Rob, going to his room. “Get rid of him, John; do what ye like with him; he’s no friend of mine,” and he went in and closed the door behind him.
John softly followed him to the door and turned the key in the lock. “I’ll take nae chances,” he said grimly.
“Good-evening,” said a sweet voice timidly. He turned around and with a gasp of astonishment beheld a young girl standing in the doorway. Suddenly he gave a great start. Could his eyes deceive him? Was that beautiful creature in the long white opera cloak, her golden locks piled in a gorgeous mass high upon her little head, really the barefooted lass he had seen only a few days ago, in her short skirt of plaid?
“Mary Campbell, is it yoursel’, lass?” he finally gasped.