"A' called, Maister MacKinnon," he said, in tones charged with dignity, "to explain the cause of my son Robert's absence; he was in bed with a poultice on his face twenty-four hours, an' he'll no be himself for days."
"'You are an ill-bred c-cad.'"
"He is no in condeetion to lose time wi' his lessons, a' can tell ye, Bailie; ye're richt to bring him back as sune as ye could; was't toothache?"
"No, it wasna toothache, but the ill-usage o' one of your scholars, the maist impudent, ill-doing, aggravating scoondrel in Muirtown."
"Peter McGuffie, come out here," which showed Bulldog's practical acquaintance with affairs. "Did ye give Robert Cosh a licking?"
No answer from Speug, but a look of satisfaction that was beyond all evidence.
"Was that just yir natural iniquity, Peter, or had ye a justification?"
Dogged silence of Speug, whose code of honour had one article at least—never to tell on a fellow.