“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Ken,” he said.
“Then you shouldn’t. There, never mind. Hi, Long Shon, come and help carry this old spar.”
“She ton’t want any one to help her carry ta bit o’ wud,” said Tavish contemptuously. “She could pitch it like ta caber.”
He raised himself to his full height, as he strode towards the gateway where the spar lay. Then, stooping down, he lifted one end and rested it upon his shoulder, after which he kept on hitching it up and getting farther under till he had reached the middle, when he grasped it with both hands firmly, took a step back, and the far end rose slowly from the ground, the spar swaying in equilibrium slowly up and down as the great fellow stood firm till it was at rest, and perfectly horizontal, when he strode slowly and steadily toward the gate and went through into the yard.
“There, Maxy, talk about a Samson!” cried Kenneth; “what do you think of that?”
“I’d give something to be as strong,” said Max, as he ran into the courtyard, followed by Kenneth, the two boys applauding loudly as Tavish gave himself a jerk, leaped aside, and the spar fell with a clang which echoed from the ruined walls.
“She’s chust a wee pit heavy, Maister Ken,” said Tavish, passing his arm across his brow, “and she wadna like to carry ta pit o’ wood to Falkirk.”
“Ta Chief—ta Chief!” shouted Scoodrach, coming running in through the gate.
“What! my father?” cried Kenneth, flushing up. “I say, Maxy, what will he say? Where is he, Scoody?”
“Chust here on ta pony,” whispered the lad, with his eyes wide; and he looked round for a way to escape, as if he had a pricking of conscience as to what had been going on.