And poor though an Englishman would consider fare like this, it must be confessed that the two Macleans were as hard and brown as hazel-nuts upon it.
“And now then, my friend, if you are ready, let us begin the grind.”
And the “grind” was commenced accordingly. And hardly did those earnest plodding students lift head except to address each other in low monotones, till forth from the great steeple of the East Church peeled the solemn stroke of one.
Then Maclean closed his books with a bang and jumped joyfully up.
“Turn out the Macleods,” he shouted as loud as he could. “One o’clock, my hearties. Turn out! Turn out! There, Donal! pull the blankets off them while I see Mr. M‘Crae safely down the rickety old stairs.”
He lit match after match for this purpose.
“Don’t lean on the bannisters,” he said, “else over you go.”
Sandie was safe in the street at last, and bade his friend good-night, just as every watchman in the city with stentorian lungs was bawling—
“Past one! Pa-a-ast one-n-n,” with a long ringing musical emphasis on the “n” of the one.
Sandie went homewards happy enough, and just a little tired and sleepy, but he had found out one truth, namely, that poor though he himself might be, he was not, by a long way, the poorest student at the great Northern University.