“Look at auld Tonal’!” cried Scoodrach; “she’s gane into her hole like a mause.”
But no one turned to look at Tonal’, for the enemy were approaching fast,—eight or nine sturdy-looking men, headed by a fair, round-faced fellow, speckled and splashed with freckles, so that his countenance was quite yellow, out of which peered, from under a pair of rugged sandy brows, two unpleasant-looking red-rimmed eyes, which blinked and peered and searched about as sharply as those of a monkey, waiting for the keeper with his daily quantum of carrot and dessert of nuts.
This man turned for a moment and said something to his followers. Then he took off his flat Tam o’ Shanter and gave his head a vicious scratch, which seemed to have the effect of removing a little more of his hair. This, however, was not the fact, only seeming, as his head was bare in patches. Then, replacing his bonnet, he took out a greasy old pocket-book, gave it a slap, and, holding his head on one side like a magpie as he drew out the tuck, he peered in, and took out a piece of folded paper, which he held with his teeth till he had closed and replaced the pocket-book.
Next he took hold of the paper, thrust his hand into his coat tail, pulled out a ragged red cotton handkerchief, and blew his nose.
Max burst into a roar of laughter, in which Kenneth joined, for to both lads the sounding blast which followed suggested that this was the enemy’s trumpet summoning them to surrender.
The man stared, and one of his followers touched him on the shoulder.
“They’re haeing the laugh at ye, mon,” he said.
“Haud yer gab. They’ll be laughing the ither side o’ the mooth sune.”
He walked right up toward the gate, and then started, for Kenneth shouted, “Hallo!” in a sharp, half-menacing way.
“Mr Mackhai at home?” said the man.