Chapter Seven.
Shon and Tavish.
The hearty breakfast of salmon steaks, freshly-caught herrings, oat-cakes, and coffee, sweetened by the seaside appetite, seemed to place matters in a different light. The adventure in the cave that morning was rough, but Kenneth was merry and good-tempered, and ready to assure his new companion that it was for his good. Then, too, the bright sunshine, the glorious blue of the sea, and the invigorating nature of the air Max breathed, seemed to make everything look more cheerful.
Before they took their places at the table, the stony look of the Scotch butler was depressing; so was the curt, distant “Good morning, Mr Blande,” of The Mackhai, who hardly spoke afterwards till toward the end of the meal, but read his newspaper and letters, leaving his son to carry on the conversation.
“I say, Grant, aren’t there any hot scones this morning?”
“No, sir,” said the butler, in an ill-used whisper.
“Why not?”
“The cook says she can’t do everything without assistance.”
“Then she ought to get up earlier—a lazy old toad! It was just as bad when there was a kitchen-maid.”