As for Scoodrach, he grew quite friendly, and grinned hugely at the way in which Max took to the defence.
“It’s a rare game, isn’t it, Maxy?” cried Kenneth, in the temporary lull of the attack.
“Game! I never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Shall we beat them off?”
“Shall she peat ’em off!” cried Tavish fiercely. “She wull peat ’em off! D’ye think ta children of ta Mackhai will let ta thieves come past ta gates?”
“Hurray!” cried Kenneth; and Scoodrach tossed up his bonnet as he shouted, and then nearly tumbled off the battlements as he tried to catch the cap, and stood scratching his curly red head as the woollen-tufted covering fell below.
“Hullo, Scood!” cried Max.
“It ton’t matter,” cried the gillie; “she can fecht petter withoot a ponnet.”
“Look at old Donald,” whispered Max.
The pipes had ceased, and they looked up, to see the old man stooping in a striking attitude, bareheaded and with his right hand shading his eyes, one knee resting on the corner crenele of the tower, his left arm grasping his pipes, while he watched the movements of the bailiff’s men, as they now began to lift the spar on to their shoulders.
“Be quite ready for them when they come,” cried Kenneth, after a hearty laugh at the old family retainer.