“There’s one more for you, Wat, my boy. Don’t let him have any more oats to-day, Shon,” cried Kenneth, giving the pony a final flick. “Yes, this is our visitor, Shon. Max, let me introduce you. This is Long Shon Ben Nevis Talisker Teacher, Esquire, Gillie-in-chief of the house of Mackhai, commonly called Long Shon from his deadly hatred of old whusky—eh, Shon?”
“Hey, Master Kenneth, if there was chokers and chief chokers down south, an’ ye’d go there, ye’d mak’ a fortune,” said the short, broad-set man, with a grin, which showed a fine set of very yellow teeth; “and I’m thenking that as punishment aifter a hard job, ye might give me shust a snuff o’ whusky in a sma’ glass.”
“Father said you were never to have any whisky till after seven o’clock.”
“Hey, but the Chief’s never hard upon a man,” said Shon, taking off his Tam-o’-Shanter, and wiping his brow with the worsted tuft on the top; then, turning with a smile to Max, “I’m thenking ye find it a verra beautiful place, sir?”
“Oh yes, very,” replied Max.
“And the Chiefs a gran’ man. Don’t ye often wonder he ever had such a laddie as this for a son?”
“Do you want me to punch your head, Shon?” said Kenneth.
Shon chuckled.
“As hard as hard, sir; never gives a puir fellow a taste o’ whusky.”
“Look here, have you broken up the deer?”