“An’ wha ir ye for a fudgie (truant) fisher, to gi’e coonsel ohn speired?” shouted Dubs, altogether disappointed in the poor part Malcolm seemed taking. “Haud to the factor there wi’ yer coonsel.”
“Get out of my way,” said Mr Crathie, still speaking through his set teeth, and came straight upon Malcolm. “Home with you! or—r—r——”
Again he raised his whip, this time plainly with intent.
“For God’s sake, factor, min’ the mere,” cried Malcolm. “Ribs an’ legs an’ a’ ’ill be to crack, gien ye anger her wi’ yer whuppin’.”
As he spoke, he drew a little aside that the factor might pass if he pleased. A noise arose in the smaller crowd, and Malcolm turned to see what it meant: off his guard, he received a stinging cut over the head from the factor’s whip. Simultaneously, Kelpie stood up on end, and Malcolm tore the weapon from the treacherous hand.
“If I gave you what you deserve, Mr Crathie, I should knock you and your horse together into that ditch. A touch of the spur would do it. I am not quite sure that I ought not. A nature like yours takes forbearance for fear.”
While he spoke, his mare was ramping and kicking, making a clean sweep all about her. Mr Crathie’s horse turned restive from sympathy, and it was all his rider could do to keep his seat. As soon as he got Kelpie a little quieter, Malcolm drew near and returned him his whip. He snatched it from his outstretched hand, and essayed a second cut at him, which Malcolm rendered powerless by pushing Kelpie close up to him. Then suddenly wheeling, he left him.
On the other side of the trench the fellows were shouting and roaring with laughter.
“Men,” cried Malcolm, “you have no right to stop up this road. I want to go and see Blue Peter.”
“Come on,” cried one of the young men, emulous of Dubs’s humour, and spread out his arms as if to receive Kelpie to his bosom.