“Oh! he won’t hurt. It takes a deal to hurt these hounds. They are like the Scots themselves, very hardy and active, but precious lazy. Just look at all those dogs snoring round the fire.
“I’ve cleared the glen, though, of some of the lazy Scots. Why, it is doing them good to drum them off to America. In my opinion, more’n one half of Scotland should be cleared and planted out in forest.”
“Well,” said one Englishman, “maybe you’re right; and now, as myself and most of us are going south early to-morrow morning, might I suggest that we join the ladies? But before I go, I must just take the liberty of thanking Mr Steve, our kindly-hearted host, for his hospitality to us since we’ve been down here, and roamed in, and shot over, his magnificent forest. I consider Mr Steve’s hospitality to be far more than princely, both out-doors and in. Just think, gentlemen, we have had to our guns about one hundred and thirty-six stags, and as we all know every stag costs its owner 300 pounds (so it is said in Scotland) you can compute what Mr Steve’s hospitality costs him. I say no more.”
“A mere flea-bite,” returned Mr Steve pompously; “I’ll have you all again next year; and now supposing we do join the ladies.”
Mr Steve’s household was certainly kept up in a right lordly style. There was no stint in it of anything that was good. He had any number of beef-eating servants. He was a good customer to his tradesmen—including his wine merchant,—who all, however, lived in Glasgow or London. It must, therefore, be confessed that he brought money into the country, and in this way did good; yet he was not liked in the glens nor villages, nor much relished by the proud old Highland families. He was no friend to the poor man, and his minions had been known ere now to shoot stray pet dogs, and even cudgel to death the cats of poor old lone women,—cats that probably were the only friends and companions they had in this world. So, to put it plain, Mr Steve was not liked in the neighbourhood, and reference was often made of, and fond memories went back to, the dear old days, when good Laird McGregor owned the glen—now a wilderness,—when it was dotted over with peaceful if rustic cottages, from which, as sure as sunrise, every morning rose, with the smoke from the chimneys the song of praise to Him Who loves the poor man as well as the rich.
The guests were preparing to retire, when a liveried servant entered with a card on a gold salver.
“Beg pardon, sir, but the gentleman would insist upon my presenting that ’ere card.”
“Take it away,” said Mr Steve, reading the card, without even deigning to finger it. “Take it away. I can see no one to-night.”