“Now, Scood, hang on, and heave her up,” cried Tavish.
“She could choost pull her up wi’ ane han’,” said Long Shon scornfully.
“Ay, but she’s a wunnerfu’ man,” said the forester coolly, and he half closed his eyes, and then passed the rope through his hands as Scood took hold and walked inward, as if he had harnessed himself, Sneeshing walking by his side, and seeming to take the deepest interest in all that was going on.
A minute more, and Tavish had swung Kenneth on to the cliff, the birds were given to Scoodrach to carry, and the party descended the gully, laughing heartily at the adventure, which was talked over from all sides, and Max questioned and criticised about his sailing the boat, till they had reached within a tack of Dunroe, when Tavish said, in his broad dialect, and with one of his pleasant looks,—
“She mustn’t mind what ta young Chief says. She sailed ta poat peautifully, only ta next tune she mustna pull oot ta cork.”
“Eh, pull out the cork!” cried Kenneth sharply. “Why, you haven’t been at the whisky, Max? No; there was none on board.”
“Na, na,” cried Tavish, “ta cork plug. She sailt in wi’ ta watter nearly up to her knees.”
“Ay,” said Long Shon, gazing down at Max’s still wet trouser legs; “an’ aw’m thinking it shows ta creat ignorance o’ ta Southron folk, to baggie up her legs like tat, when a man might wear a kilt and niver get her legs wet at all.”
“All right, Shonny. Mr Max is going to have one, with a plaid that’ll make your eyes ache. Now, Scoody, jump out, and take care of those hawks. Hooray, Max! just in time. There goes the gong.”