“Get up, sir, and come on.”
“Na. She will gang away and be a redcoat. Naebody cares for Scoody the noo.”
“Don’t be a red-headed donkey. Get up, and come and show us which way Max Blande went.”
Scoodrach shook his head.
“Look here, if you don’t get up, I’ll call father, and he’ll come and lay into you with the dog-whip.”
“He wadna daur,” cried the lad, leaping up and glaring at the speaker.
“Yes, he would, and so would I, if I had one here.”
“Gin ye daur lay a finger on her, she’ll hae your bluid!” cried Scoodrach.
“There!” cried Kenneth, pressing his pony’s sides, and reaching over to catch tightly hold of the lad’s collar. “I daur lay a whole hand on you, Scoody. Noo, lat’s see gin ye daur turn on your Chief.”
“Ye know I wadna hurt a hair o’ your heid,” muttered the lad.