"Snoolin' and snirtlin' o'er it!" spat the old man.
"Eh?" queried Stewart, amiably.
"Do ye let whigmaleeries flimmer in yer noddle at a time like this?"
"Why, Andy, speaking of a day like this, you'd have the crochets whiffed from your head if you'd go out for your lunch in the pep of the air instead of penning yourself in the office."
Mac Tavish leaped from his stool and marched toward this non-combatant.
"Whaur's the fire o' yer spunk, Stewart Morrison?"
"Go on, Andy!" permitted the master, leaning back in his chair.
"Do ye allow such feckless loons to coom and beard ye in yer ain castle?"
"Andy, if I were playing their game, as they call it, I'd say that I'm going to give 'em all a chance to lay their cards, face up, on the table. But, putting it in a way you and I understand, I'm touching a match to their goods."
Mac Tavish nodded approvingly. He did understand that metaphor. A burning match will not ignite pure wool; threads of shoddy will catch fire.
"Aye! The fire test o' the fabric! Well and gude! But the toe o' yer boot for 'em. Such was ca'd for when he said ye set yer ainsel' in the way for muckle profeet!"