“No, no, my good fellow. But the idea of that old cockalorum—though he is my rival—doing a sturdy fellow like me to death is too amusing.”
“Well,” said Sandie, “he’s just pretty tough, though he is a trifle old. He can hold a pistol or a jock-the-leg knife easily enough; the dark nights will soon be here. He’d be a happy man if you were dead, so I advise you to beware.”
“Well, well, God bless you, Sandie; when I’m saying my prayers to-night I’ll think upon you. Now have a dram, for I must be off to ride round the farm.”
Just before his exit, the farmer, who, by the way, was a favourite all over the countryside, slipped a new five-shilling piece into Sandie’s hand, and off the little man marched with a beaming face.
“I’ll have a rare spree at Nancy Wilson’s inn on Saturday,” he said. “I’ll treat the lads and lassies too.”
But Shufflin’ Sandie’s forenoon’s work was not over yet.
He set spurs to his mare, and soon was galloping along the road in the direction of Laird Fletcher’s mansion.
The Laird hadn’t come down yet. He was feeling the effects of last evening’s potations, for just as—
“The Highland hills are high, high, high,
The Highland whisky’s strong.”
Sandie was invited to take a chair in the hall, and in about half an hour Laird Fletcher came shuffling along in dressing-gown and slippers.