Muckle John glanced at him very casually and fell to examining his finger-nails, while Rob stared at the stranger in open wonder.
Behind the man in the doorway there clustered a half-dozen dirty Mackenzies like cattle beasts nosing at a gate.
Neil Mackenzie, for he it was, set about ordering a drink for himself and then sitting down upon a stool he stared at Muckle John in the same insolent manner, while into the room trooped the men from the roadside, intent on the sport. They had seen Neil at this game before. He was the rare one to lay a stranger by the heels.
"Maybe you've travelled far the day?" he asked in a voice like the bark of a fox.
Muckle John looked him over slowly.
"Maybe," he replied, and warmed his hands at the peats.
Mackenzie stirred upon his stool.
"You are not the only one on the road with a hacked ankle to-day," he said.
"A hacked ankle," retorted Muckle John, "is mair consoling than a hewn head."
So far they had spoken in Scots, but now, as though to let his men hear how the matter went, Mackenzie rose to his feet and swaggering across to Rob gave him a cuff on the head and said: