“Want to speak to me, my man?”
“Seems very like it, sir,” replied Sandie.
“Well, come into the library.”
The Laird led the way, and Sandie followed.
“I’ve been thinkin’ all night, Laird, about the threat I heard ye make use of—to kill the farmer of Birnie-Boozle.”
Gentlemen of fifty who patronise the wine of Scotland are apt to be quick-tempered.
Fletcher started to his feet, purple-faced and shaking with rage.
“If you dare utter such an expression to me again,” he cried, banging his fist on the table, “I won’t miss you a kick till you’re on the Deeside road.”
“Well, well, Laird,” said Sandie, rising to go, “I can take my leave without kicking, and so save your old shanks; but look here. I’m going to ride straight to Aberdeen and see the Fiscal.”
Sandie was at the door, when Laird Fletcher cooled down and called him back.