“Damn the cratur!” cried Fergus.
“Whisht, whisht, laddie! he’s maybe hearin’ ye this meenute. An’ gien he binna, there’s ane ’at is, an’ likesna sweirin’.”
“I beg yer pardon, auntie, but it’s jist provokin’!” returned Fergus, and therewith recounted the tale of his night’s watch, omitting mention only of his feelings throughout the vigil.
As soon as he had had his breakfast, he went to carry his report to Glashruach.
The laird was vexed, and told him he must sleep well before night, and watch to better purpose.
The next night, Fergus’s terror returned in full force; but he watched thoroughly notwithstanding, and when his aunt entered, she found him there, and her kitchen in a mess. He had caught no brownie, it was true, but neither had a stroke of her work been done. The floor was unswept; not a dish had been washed; it was churning-day, but the cream stood in the jar in the dairy, not the butter in the pan on the kitchen-dresser. Jean could not quite see the good or the gain of it. She had begun to feel like a lady, she said to herself, and now she must tuck up her sleeves and set to work as before. It was a come-down in the world, and she did not like it. She conned her nephew little thanks, and not being in the habit of dissembling, let him feel the same. He crept to bed rather mortified. When he woke from a long sleep, he found no meal waiting him, and had to content himself with cakes[1] and milk before setting out for “the Muckle Hoose.”
[1] It amuses a Scotchman to find that the word cakes, as in “The Land of Cakes,” is taken, not only by foreigners, but by some English people—as how, indeed, should it be otherwise?—to mean compositions of flour, more or less enriched, and generally appreciable; whereas, in fact, it stands for the dryest, simplest preparation in the world. The genuine cakes is—(My grammar follows usage: cakes is; broth are.)—literally nothing but oatmeal made into a dough with cold water and dried over the fire—sometimes then in front of it as well.
“You must add cunning to courage, my young friend,” said Mr. Galbraith; and the result of their conference was that Fergus went home resolved on yet another attempt.
He felt much inclined to associate Donal with him in his watch this time, but was too desirous of proving his courage both to himself and to the world, to yield to the suggestion of his fear. He went to bed with a book immediately after the noon-day meal and rose in time for supper.
There was a large wooden press in the kitchen, standing out from the wall; this with the next wall made a little recess, in which there was just room for a chair; and in that recess Fergus seated himself, in the easiest chair he could get into it. He then opened wide the door of the press, and it covered him entirely.