"You would have speech with the Pagan," said he, when the night was wearing on. "An' cold eneuch he was when I picked him up at the mouth o' the Rouen river, for I had an express from a compatriot, Mr Hamish, serving overseas"—this with a very grand air.
"Were you wanting speech with me?" said I, for I could see the drink was going to his head.
"It's a wee thing private," says he; "but tak' up your dram. I canna thole a man that loiters wi' drink till the pith is out of it."
At that we drew our chairs close before the fire.
"Many's the time we would be talking about ye, Mr Hamish," says he, "Dan and myself; yon time we left ye in the haar at Loch Ranza—a senseless job, too, by all accounts, and Alastair rowing to the suthard, and us creeping out to the nor'west; he'll be hard to find now, by Gully—ay, Dan will be hard to find.
"I am hoping you are not close-hauled for time," says he, "for it's hard to come at my tale, Mr Hamish; but ye see, Dan McBride had some notion o' what might occur—I am thinking ye will see with me there.
"I am giving you the man's words, ye see, for he had great faith in ye.
"'Ye'll say to Hamish,' says he, and I'm telling you he was a sober man—'ye'll say, I am not wanting the wean to grow up like a cadger's dog, to be running from kicks and whining for a bone.'
"I am no' great hand at this wean business, Mr Hamish, but McBride was a fine man."
At that I made mention of the wean he had taken to the convent in
France.