As they thus stood, the one trying to sweeten the other’s relation to himself, if he could not hope much for her general temper, a man, who looked half farmer, half lawyer, appeared on the opposite side of the court in the shadow.
“You are spoiling that mare, MacPhail,” he cried.
“I canna weel du that, sir; she canna be muckle waur,” said the youth.
“It’s whip and spur she wants, not sugar.”
“She has had, and sall hae baith, time aboot (in turn); and I houp they’ll du something for her in time, sir.”
“Her time shall be short here, anyhow. She’s not worth the sugar you give her.”
“Eh, sir! luik at her,” said Malcolm, in a tone of expostulation, as he stepped back a few paces and regarded her with admiring eyes. “Saw ye ever sic legs? an’ sic a neck? an’ sic a heid? an’ sic fore an’ hin’ quarters? She’s a’ bonny but the temper o’ her, an’ that she canna help like the likes o’ you an’ me.”
“She’ll be the death o’ somebody some day. The sooner we get rid of her the better. Just look at that,” he added, as the mare laid back her ears and made a vicious snap at nothing in particular.
“She was a favourite o’ my—maister, the marquis,” returned the youth, “an’ I wad ill like to pairt wi’ her.”
“I’ll take any offer in reason for her,” said the factor. “You’ll just ride her to Forres market next week, and see what you can get for her. I do think she’s quieter since you took her in hand.”