“My brave fellow!” exclaimed his master—“you did nobly.”
“Hoot! just naething at a’, Sir Mooray. But winna ye try the whuskee?”
“No, my good fellow. But I don’t know how I am to reward you.”
“Hoot! then, Sir Mooray, I’ll just tell ye,” said the Scot, whose eye was even now on the main chance. “Tam Wilkins is a gude servant, but he’s auld, and past the gairden. Suppose ye mak’ me head-gairdener, and give Jenny Barker a hint that she’d better marry me as soon as we’ve transported Jock Gurdon.”
“My good fellow, I’ll stand your friend, depend upon it,” said the baronet, smiling in spite of himself. But the next moment he frowned heavily, as he said, in a low voice: “Do you know who it was that saved you?”
“No, Sir Mooray, unless it was one of the lads in the bit skiff. But this is rare whuskee, Sir Mooray!”
Sir Murray frowned more deeply before speaking again.
“Did you see any one with the villain you so nobly captured? Though how you came to suspect the attack I don’t know.”
“Not a soul; only the two ye’ve taken, Sir Mooray,” said Sandy, reddening, perhaps from the effect of the whisky. “And as to suspecting, I have no suspicion in me; but I jist like to see of a night that naebody’s after the grapes or bit of wall-fruit, for Tam Wilkins is getting past minding it.”
There was nothing more to be learned here, and, day breaking soon after, Sir Murray summoned two more of his men—a couple who had not been so harassed—and proceeded once more to drag the lake, more assistance and better implements being at the same time sent for.