“They ca’ me John MacPherson.”
“My name’s Sutherland.”
“Eh, man! It’s my ain mither’s name. Gie’s a grup o’ yer han’, Maister Sutherlan’.—Eh, man!” he repeated, shaking Hugh’s hand with vehemence.
“I have no doubt,” said Hugh, relapsing into English, “that we are some cousins or other. It’s very lucky for me to find a relative, for I wanted some—advice.”
He took care to say advice, which a Scotchman is generally prepared to bestow of his best. Had it been sixpence, the cousinship would have required elaborate proof, before the treaty could have made further progress.
“I’m fully at your service, sir.”
“When will you be off duty?”
“At nine o’clock preceesely.”
“Come to No. 13,—Square, and ask for me. It’s not far.”
“Wi’ pleesir, sir, ‘gin ‘twar twise as far.”