"Then what the hell did ye mean?" inquired the mystified disciple—not altogether unreasonably.
Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten out the conversation.
"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name was just stampit on the bullet. Like—like—like an identity disc!" he added brilliantly.
The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.
"I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae imply is this, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! That's what I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?"
But it was the injured Buncle who replied—like a lightning-flash.
"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally. "That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull. There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!"
It was a knock-out blow.
"For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised Tosh, "drop the subject, and I'll gie ye a bit ham o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it—"
"What kin' o' a fire is this?"