“Didn’t I tell ye, sir? He’ll kill ye yet if ye don’t take care. Be warned!”
“Well,” said Craig, laughing, “he is a scientific boxer, and he hurt me a bit, but I think I’ve given him a drubbing he won’t soon forget.”
“No,” said Sandie significantly; “he—won’t—forget. Take my word for that.”
“Well, Sandie, come up to the old inn, and we’ll have a glass together.”
For a whole fortnight Laird Fletcher was confined to his rooms before he felt fit to be seen.
“A touch of neuralgia,” he made his housekeeper tell all callers.
But he couldn’t and dared not refuse to see Shufflin’ Sandie when he sent up his card—an old envelope that had passed through the post-office.
“Well,” said the Laird, “to what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”
“Come off that high horse, sir,” said Sandie, “and speak plain English. I’ll tell you,” he added, “I’ll tell you in a dozen words. I’m going to build a small house and kennels, and I’m going to marry Fanny—the bonniest lassie in all the world, sir. Ah! won’t I be happy, just!”