“The Mackhai is beginning breakfast, sir,” said Grant, as Max came down; and he drew back with a tray full of hot viands, his sour, stony face relaxing into a grin as the shrinking figure of the young guest passed him.
“Good morning, Mr Blande!” said The Mackhai sternly; and then his severe face underwent a change. He was about to burst out laughing, but he bit his lip, frowned, and then in a changed tone of voice said, “Thank you for the compliment, Mr Blande.”
“It—it was not meant for a compliment, sir,” faltered Max.
“Indeed! I thought you had donned our tartan out of compliment to your host.”
“It is an accident, sir,” stammered Max, with his face scarlet. “I have lost my clothes, and Kenneth has been kind enough to lend me a suit.”
“Oh, I see!” said The Mackhai, as the dogs, which for a treat had been admitted, came sniffing round the shivering lad, who looked pitiably thin and miserable in the kilt, with the sporran hanging down far lower than it should.
“It is a very comfortable dress,” said The Mackhai, recovering himself, though, to Kenneth’s delight and Max’s misery, he could not repress a smile. “There, pray, sit down, the breakfast is growing cold.”
Max went to his place shrinkingly, for Bruce, the great deerhound, was following close behind him, apparently examining him thoughtfully.
“Lie down, Bruce!” said Kenneth, and the dog dropped into a couching attitude. “You look fizzing, Max,” he said, in a low voice, as his father walked to the window and peered out.
Max gave him a piteous look, and gladly seated himself, seeming glad of the shelter of the hanging tablecloth, for, after examining him wonderingly, Sneeshing suddenly set up his tail very stiffly and uttered a sharp bark, while Dirk shook his frill out about his neck and uttered a menacing growl, which to poor Max’s ears sounded like, “You miserable impostor, get out of those things!”