“Nonsense!” exclaimed the marquis once more, and shrugged his shoulders. “You must leave that room. If I hear anything more about noises, or that sort of rubbish, I shall insist upon it.—I sent for you now, however, to ask you about these clandestine meetings of the fisher-folk.”
“Clandestine, my lord? There’s no clam aboot them, but the clams upo’ the rocks.”
The marquis was not etymologist enough to understand Malcolm’s poor pun, and doubtless thought it worse than it was.
“I don’t want any fooling,” he said. “Of course you know these people?”
“Ilka man, wuman, an’ bairn o’ them,” answered Malcolm.
“And what sort are they?”
“Siclike as ye micht expec’.”
“That’s not a very luminous answer.”
“Weel, they’re nae waur nor ither fowk, to begin wi’; an’ gien this hauds, they’ll be better nor mony.”
“What sort are their leaders?”