"What do ye mean, Curly?" asked Alec in amazement.
"Yon divot 'at ye flang aff o' Luckie Lapp's riggin'," said Curly, "cam' richt o' the back o' my heid, as I lay o' the brae, and dang the blude oot at my niz. That's a'.—Ye'll preten' ye didna see me, nae doobt."
"I say, Curly," said Alec, putting his arm round his shoulders, and leading him aside, "we maun hae nae mair o' this kin' o' wark. It's a dam't shame! Do ye see nae differ atween chokin' an ill-faured tyke an' chokin' a puir widow's lum?"
"'Twas only for fun."
"It's ill fun that baith sides canna lauch at, Curly."
"Rob Bruce wasna lauchin' whan he brocht the bick to the schuil, nor yet whan he gaed hame again."
"That was nae fun, Curly. That was doonricht earnest."
"Weel, weel, Alec; say nae mair aboot it."
"No more I will. But gin I was you, Curly, I wad tak Lucky a seck o' spales the morn."
"I'll tak them the nicht, Alec.—Father, hae ye an auld seck ony gait?"