He hurried Max out of the quadrangle and down toward the narrow neck of rock which was uncovered by the falling tide, and then along by a sandy path, which passed two or three low whitewashed bothies, from whose chimneys rose a faint blue smoke, which emitted a pungent, peculiar odour.
Suddenly a thought occurred to Kenneth as they were passing one of the cottages, where a brown-faced, square-looking woman in a white mutch sat picking a chicken, the feathers floating here and there, and a number of fowls pecking about coolly enough, and exhibiting not the slightest alarm at their late companion’s fate.
“That’s Mrs Long Shon, Max,” whispered Kenneth hastily. “You go on along this path; keep close to the water, and I’ll catch up to you directly.”
“You will not be long?” said Max, with a helpless look.
“Long! no. Catch you directly. Go on. I just want to speak to the old woman.”
Max went on, keeping, as advised, close to the waters of the little bay, till he could go no farther, for a rapid burn came down from the hills and emptied itself there into the sea.
“Hillo! ahoy!” came a voice from behind him, just as he was gazing helplessly about, and wondering whether, if he attempted to ford the burn, there would be any dangerous quicksands.
Max turned, to see Kenneth coming trotting along with a basket in his hand.
“Off with your shoes and socks, Max,” cried Kenneth.
He set the example, and was half across before Max was ready.