Max shivered as he recalled his sensations upon the ride from the steamer; but there was a favourable side to such a trip—he could sit in the boat and have a railway wrapper about him.
“Where would you go if we sailed?”
“Oh, anywhere. Up the loch, over the firth, and through the sound. Over to Inchkie Island. We’ll take the guns; we may get a shot at a hare, hawk, or an eagle.”
Max nodded.
“That’s right. Get down, Bruce! don’t you get smelling his legs, or we shall have him bobbing off into the sea.”
The great deerhound, who was approaching in a very suspicious manner, eyeing Max’s thin legs, turned off, and, choosing a warm, smooth piece of rock, lay down.
“Off you go, Scood, and bring the boat round. Come on, Max, and let’s get the guns. You can shoot, can’t you?”
“I think so,” said Max, as Scoodrach went off at a trot.
“You think so?”
“Yes. I never fired a gun, but the man showed me how to load and take aim, and it looks very easy.”