“I’ll believe it when I see it. You’re neither lord nor laird yet. Your permit, please. I believe nobody since two students poached all over the hills here and called themselves friends of the laird’s.”
“As to my permit, fellow, I did not trouble to bring it from C—.”
“Then you’ll consider yourself my prisoner till you can produce it.”
The stranger was a man about forty-five, tall and wiry and haughty. He looked at Dugald up and down for a moment.
“Dare you, fellow?” he shouted.
Dugald quietly laid down his gun and threw off his jacket. He then took off his scarf, and stretched it out in front of the stranger. It measured fully a yard and a half.
“I’ve tied the hands and feet of a poacher before,” he said, “a bigger man than you. And I mean to do my duty by you.”
“Dugald,” said Kenneth, “this gentleman may really be what he says.”
“Let him come quietly, then,” replied Dugald. “No stranger that ever walked will lead Dugald McCrane into trouble again. Is it going to surrender you are, sir? Consider while I count ten. One—two—three—”
“Enough, enough. I’m your prisoner, fellow. It is very ridiculous. Perhaps you’ll live to rue this day. Come on with me to the inn.”