“The scoundrel! How dare he?” muttered The Mackhai. “To take such a mean advantage of his position. I will not suffer it. I’ll—”
“I’m very sorry, father!” faltered Kenneth, crossing slowly toward his frowning elder. “I did not mean to—”
“Eh! what, Ken, my boy?” cried The Mackhai, with his countenance changing. “I’ve only just come in. Sit down, my lad. You must be half-starved, eh?”
“I thought you were cross with me, sir.”
“Cross? Angry? Not a bit. Why?”
“You said—”
“Tchah! nonsense! Thinking aloud. What did you say?—a seal?”
“Yes, father. Scood said there was one, but it had gone.”
“Then you didn’t shoot it? Well, I’m not sorry. They’re getting scarce now, and I like to see the old things about the old place. Hah!” he continued, after a pause that had been well employed by both at the amply-supplied, handsomely-furnished table; “and I like the old porridge for breakfast. Give me some of that salmon, Ken. No; I’ll have a kipper.”
“More coffee, please, father,” said Ken, with his mouth full. “Have a scone, father? They’re prime.”