“Walk! No. Could we, Scood?”
“No, we couldn’t walk,” said the lad addressed; “and who’d want to walk when we’ve got such a peautiful poat?”
There was another silence, during which the boat rushed on, with Kenneth trickily steering so as to make their way as rough as possible, both boys finding intense enjoyment in seeing the pallid, frightened looks of their guest, and noting the spasmodic starts he gave whenever a little wave came with a slap against the bows and sprinkled them.
“I say, who’s your father?” said Kenneth suddenly.
“Mr Blande of Lincoln’s Inn. You are Mr Mackhai’s son, are you not?”
“I am The Mackhai’s son,” cried Kenneth, drawing himself up stiffly.
“Yes; there’s no Mr Mackhai here,” cried Scoodrach fiercely. “She’s the Chief.”
“She isn’t, Scood. Oh, what an old dummy you are!”
“Well, so she is the chief.”
“So she is! Ah, you! Look here, you, Max Blande: my father’s the Chief of the Clan Mackhai.”