“Come, come, my good fellow, don’t be silly; sit down again. You must never say a word to anyone about this. You promise?”
“I promise, if ye square me.”
“Well, will a pound do it?”
“Look here, Laird, I’m saving up money to buy a house of my own, and keep dogs; a pound won’t do it, but six might.”
“Six pounds!”
“Deuce a dollar less, Laird.” The Laird sighed, but he counted out the cash. It was like parting with his heart’s blood. But to have such an accusation even pointed at him would have damned his reputation, and spoilt all his chances with Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee. Shufflin’ Sandie smiled as he stowed the golden bits away in an old sock. He then scratched his head and pointed to the decanter.
The Laird nodded, and Sandie drank his health in one jorum, and his success with Miss Lane in another. Sly Sandie!
But his eyes were sparkling now, and he rode away singing “Auld Lang Syne.”
He was thinking at the same time about the house and kennels he should build when he managed to raise two hundred pounds.
“I’ll save every sixpence,” he said to himself. “When I’ve settled down I’ll marry Fanny.”