“Yes. They’re going to fetch it, and make a battering-ram to knock down the gate.”
“Then we’ll half drown the beggars,” cried Kenneth. “More water here! Cookie, let’s have some hot.”
“Hey, but ye shall have sax pots fu’, Maister Kenneth,” cried the woman, and in a very short time, as the bailiffs men went down to get the old spar, six kettles and saucepans of boiling water were brought up into the old broken gateway tower.
“Pour it into the pails, and soften it down, Maxy. We mustn’t give it to ’em too hot,” cried Kenneth.
“How much cold shall I put?”
“Half and half; that’ll suit ’em. Shall I give ’em some whisky and sugar with it, Grant?”
“Nay, nay,” cried the old butler; “and don’t make it too cold, or there’ll be no sting in it to frighten ’em.”
“Now then, girls,” cried Kenneth, “bring them along.”
Everybody worked with a will, and plenty of missiles were carried up the broken stone stairs and stored ready, Max making himself so busy, and growing so excited, that Tavish patted him on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he said softly, “’twas a gran’ petty she were born so far sooth.”