“Yes, do,” cried Max eagerly.
“All right. I’ll go and find Scoody. Get the lines. We may as well try for some mackerel as we go.”
Kenneth ran out of the room, and Max went to the little study, got the lines, and then was about to follow his friend, when he recalled the fact that he had not been to see old Donald since he had been better.
So, going out into the courtyard, he made for the old man’s quarters, knocked, was told to come in, and entered, to find the piper propped up in an easy-chair, and Long Shon and Tavish keeping him company.
The old man glared at him strangely, and grasped at something he had in his lap which emitted a feeble squeak, and Max saw that they were his pipes, about which his thin fingers played.
“I’m going away to-morrow, Donald,” said Max, “and wanted to know how you were.”
The old man neither moved nor spoke, but his deeply-sunken eyes seemed to burn, as he glared fiercely, and his breathing sounded deep and hoarse.
“I hope you are better?”
There was no reply.
“He is better, is he not, Tavish?”