“Let it come. We don’t mind, do we?”
Max’s lips moved, but he said nothing.
“I don’t care, then,” said Scood, pushing off his shoes, and then setting to work to rid himself of his coarse grey socks, as if he were skinning his lower extremities, after which he grumpily began to load his shoes as if they were mortars, by ramming a rolled-up-ball-like sock in each.
“Nobody wants you to care, Rufus,” cried Kenneth.
“My fathers were once chiefs like yours,” continued Scood, amusing himself by sopping up the water and squeezing the sponge with his toes.
“Get out! Old Coolin Cumstie never had a castle. He only lived in a bothy.”
“And she can tie like a mans. It’s a coot death to trown.”
Scood was getting excited, and when in that state his dialect became broader.
“Only you’ll get precious wet, Scoodie,” cried Kenneth mockingly. “Never mind; I shall swim home, and I’ll look out for you when you’re washed ashore, and well hang you up to dry.”
“Nay, I shall hae to hang you oop,” cried Scood. “D’ye mind! Look at the watter coming in!”