Being a Highlander, he was naturally somewhat superstitious.
“I would give worlds,” he said to himself, “to know what is doing at home to-night, and to be sure that my dear mother and father are well. Dear old father, sitting even now, perhaps, smoking his everlasting meerschaum behind his Scotsman. And mother—reading. Oh! would I could sit beside her for a moment, and tell her how often her boy thinks of her!”
Then all the events of his young days rose up before his mind—his governess and Towsie Jock; he laughed, melancholy though he was, when he thought of that night in the tree—his garden, his summer-house, and pets, and his dear friend Andrew.
He touched a gong and Doomah appeared.
“Are you sleepy?”
“No, sir, I not sleepy.”
“Then come and tell me a story—the story of your life.”
“Ah! dat is not mooch, sir. Plenty time I be in action. I have many wounds from Arab guns.”
“Because you’re a spy, you know.”
“A spy, sir! Not I, sir. No, I am interpreter; I fight in de interests of de Breetish Queen of England.”