“How about the deer, father?”
“Shon is packing them off for the South, my boy. Good morning.”
The Mackhai walked stiffly out of the room, and Kenneth seized a plate and knife and fork, after which he cut a triangle of a solid nature out of a grouse pie, and passed the mass of juicy bird, gelatinous gravy, and brown crust to his guest.
“I couldn’t, indeed I couldn’t!” cried Max.
“But you must,” cried Kenneth, leaping up. “I’m going to ring for some more hot coffee!”
“No, no, don’t, pray!” cried Max, rising from the table.
“Oh, all right,” said Kenneth, in an ill-used manner; “but how am I to be hospitable if you won’t eat? Come on, then, and I’ll introduce you to Long Shon. I’ll bet a shilling he has got Scood helping him, and so greasy that he won’t be fit to touch.”
Max stared, and Kenneth laughed at his wonderment.
“Didn’t you hear what my father said? Shon has been skinning and breaking up the deer.”
“Breaking up the deer?”