"I know the road," she said impatiently; "it's all twisty-wisty. Can you make it?"
"I'm a married man," said he.
"Ten pounds sterling if you make it."
"And if we smash and are kilt?"
"Why, there'll be a more generous master than I in Beem-Tay and in Brig
O'Dread—that's all."
She leaped into the car, and a minute later they were flying along the narrow, tortuous North Road like a nightmare. Once she leaned over the driver's seat and spoke in his ear: "I hav'na the ten pounds noo," she said, "but I'll beg them, McDonald, or borrow them—" The car began to slow down, the driver's face grew gloomy. "Or steal them!" she cried. McDonald's face brightened, for The McTavish's money difficulties were no better known than the fact that she was a woman of her word. He opened the throttle and the car once more shot dizzily forward.
Twenty miles out of Brig O'Dread they came upon another car, bound in the same direction and also running desperately fast. They passed it in a roaring smother of dust.
"McDonald," said The McTavish, "you needna run sae fast noo. Keep the lead o' yon car to Beem-Tay gate—that is all."
She sank back luxuriously, sighed, and began to wonder how she should find McDonald his ten pounds sterling.