“So that’s where you learned to carry a knife in your boot is it?”
“Ay,” admitted Sandy, “That’s where I learned it. I was tickled, dinna ye ken, wi’ the idea that a man like him, hating me as he did, should be teachin’ me sumthin’.”
“But that’s no way to carry a knife,” Max interrupted with fine contempt. “At least no gentleman would do so, though a gambler might.”
“How then?” asked Sandy, considerably crest-fallen. “Where does a gentleman usually carry his bowie-knife?”
“Down the back of his neck.”
“Weel, weel, what would my old grandmither up in Dundee say to that! This is what I’m thinkin’ she would remark, that a wise man gets learnin’ frae them that has nane to themsel’s.”
This ten-strike scored to Scotch credit, they settled down again to their study of the new situation, the full meaning of which grew upon them as they talked it over.
“It strikes me,” said Sandy, “that it wad be a gude thing if Bushwick were to go directly back to town and see that Mr. Morris. Perhaps, considerin’ a’ the saircumstances, he would watch the rascals a wee bit. I suppose he’s na ower-fond o’ that blackleg, and maybe he wad come up on Saturday night, and so gie us a bit o’ help if we happened to be needin’ it. Meanwhile Brehm an’ mysel’ will put our castle in a state o’ defense, as it were.”
This course was decided upon. Len unslung his load of groceries, ammunition, the ever-welcome mail, and other purchases, and it was shouldered by Sandy, who gave him in return one of his pistols. Then Len started back toward town, caring little for the extra walk.
The other two lads meanwhile hastened home, busily talking as they strode along.