“Indeed I will, sir, and glad to.”
“Well, there’s the bottle, and yonder’s the glass. Help yourself, lad.”
Sandie did that, right liberally, too.
“Horses and hounds all well, Sandie?”
“All beautiful, Laird. And I was just going to ask if I could have the bay mare, Jean, to ride o’er to Birnie-Boozle (Craig Nicol’s farm possessed that euphonic name). I’ve news for the fairmer.”
“All right, Sandie. Take care you don’t let her down, though.”
“I’ll see to her, Laird.”
And away went Sandie exultant, and in ten minutes more was clattering along the Deeside road.
It was early autumn, and the tints were just beginning to show red and yellow on the elms and sycamores, but Sandie looked at nothing save his horse’s neck.
“Was the farmer at home?”