“Well?” came from close by, and the young gillie showed himself, with his face half averted.
“Rin, bairn, and get ta little poat an’ row her to ta mooth o’ ta stream,” cried Long Shon.
“Ay,” cried Scoodrach, turning eagerly to run.
“An’, Scoody, my laddie,” cried Tavish, “ye’ll chust ask Maister Crant to fling twa pillows in ta poat.”
“Yes.”
“And, Scoody, ye’ll chust say that the young Chief is a’ richt the noo, but that we’re a’ wat wi’ sweet watter, and if she thinks a wee drappie o’ whusky would pe good for ta young Chief and the rest, she can pit it in ta poat.”
Scoodrach nodded, and ran off rapidly over the rugged ground, bounding across the stones like a goat, and Kenneth now tried to rise.
“Ye’ll pe a pit petter the noo, Maister Kenneth,” said Tavish tenderly. “She’s chust sent for ta poat, and she’ll kneel doon, and Long Shon will help ye to get upo’ her back, ant she’ll carry ye chently doon to ta mooth o’ ta stream.”
“Oh no, Tavvy; I can walk.”
“Nay, laddie, ye canna walk. It winna pe ta first time she’s carriet ye on her pack. Noo, Long Shon, chust gie ta young Chief a lift, and—that’s ta way. Did she hurt ye?”