“Yes, all right, Tavish; I only wanted my friend to see how big you are.”
“Ah, it’s no great thing to be so big, sir,” said the great forester, slowly subsiding, and doubling himself up till he was once more in reasonable compass on the block. “It makes people think ye can do so much wark, and a man has a deal to carry on two legs.”
“Tavish is afraid of the work,” grumbled Shon. “I did all these up mysel’.”
“An’ why not?” said the great forester, in a low, deep growl. “She found the deer for the Chief yester, and took the horns when he’d shot ’em and prought ’em hame as a forester should.”
“Never mind old Shon, Tavish. Look here, what are you going to do to-day?”
“Shust rest hersel’ and smock her pipe.”
“No; come along with us, Tav. I want my friend here to catch a salmon.”
“Hey! she’ll come,” said the forester, in a low voice which sounded like human thunder, and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he stuck the stem inside his sock beside the handle of a little knife, but started slightly, for the bowl burnt his leg, and he snatched it out and thrust it in the goatskin pocket that hung from his waistband.
“And Scood and me are to be left to get off these boxes!” cried Shon angrily.
“No, you’ll have to do it all yourself, Shon,” said Kenneth, laughing; “Scood’s coming along with us.”