“Pitch her overboard, then, and she’ll swim ashore, and she’ll hae to row ta poat her ainsel’.”
But Scoodrach had no occasion to swim, for he was not pitched overboard; and, as the wind dropped and the water became like glass, the rods were laid in, and Scoodrach rowed them along in sulky silence toward the shore; Kenneth, as he sat now beside his companion, returning to the idea he had been about to start some time before.
“I say, Max,” he said, “I wonder what’s the matter with father. I wish old Curzon was here. I think the pater is going to be ill.”
“I hope not.”
“So do I; but he always seems so dull, and talks so little.”
“I thought he seemed to be very quiet.”
“Quiet! I should think he is. Why, he used to be always going out shooting or fishing, and taking me. Now, he’s continually going to Glasgow on business, or else to Edinburgh.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“I don’t know. He said it was uncertain. Perhaps he’ll be there when we get home.”
But The Mackhai was not back, and a fortnight elapsed, and still he was away.