Max stared, and felt a curious sensation of shrinking from the weird-looking old man, which increased as he suddenly beckoned him to approach with his thin, claw-like hand, after sinking back in his seat.
In spite of his shrinking, Max felt compelled to go closer to the old fellow, who nodded and smiled and patted the baize-covered skin in his lap.
“Ta bag,” he said confidentially, “she isn’t a hundert years auld, but she’s auld, and she was proke, and ta wint whustled when she plew, but she’s chust mended, and to-morrow—ah, to-morrow!”
“Yes; we’re going fishing,” said Kenneth, who was enjoying Max’s shrinking way.
“Chust going to fush,” said the old man, who was gazing searchingly at Max. “And she likes ta music and ta pipes? She shall hear them then.”
“Yes, get them mended, Donald; we want to hear them again.”
“P’raps she could chust make enough music the noo.”
Kenneth laughed as he saw Max’s horror, for the old man began hastily to twist up the wax end with which he had been binding one of the cracked pipes; but he laid his hand on his shoulder.
“No, no; not this morning. Get them all right, Donald.”
“Yes; she was ketting them all right,” he muttered, and he began with trembling fingers to unfasten the waxed thread.