“Oh no. There: see how it rains.”
“Yes, that’s pretty tidy,” said Kenneth, as the air was literally blackened by the tremendous torrent that fell. “I say, Max, this is the sort of day to see the Mare’s Tail. My word! there’s some water coming down now.”
“It must be terrible.”
“Terrible? Nonsense! Here, come into the kitchen and let’s see if there’s any one there.”
Max wondered, but followed his young host to the kitchen, expecting to see no one but the maids, and perhaps Grant, the severe butler; but, when they reached the great stone-floored place, there were Tavish, Long Shon, and Scoodrach, the two latter seated at a table, and the great forester toasting the back of his legs at the fire, and sending up a cloud of steam, an example followed by the three dogs, who sent up smaller clouds of their own.
There was a chorus, or rather a trio of good-mornings, and a series of rappings from dogs’ tails, and Max ventured to suggest to the great Highlander that it was very wet.
“Ou ay,” he said; “a wee bit shoory, put she’ll pe over soon.”
“Pretty good spate up in the hills, Tavvy,” cried Kenneth.
“Ou ay, Maister Ken; but it’s gran’ weather for ta fush.”
“A’ was thenking ye’d like to tak’ ta chentleman up ta glen to see ta fa’s,” said Long Shon.