“Stay, Terry!” cried Colin. “I’ve captured an idea.”
“Ah! you Scotch are always capturing something, whether it be an idea, a flea, or the itch. Let’s hear what it is.”
“After that insult to ma kintree,” good-humouredly rejoined Colin; “I dinna know whuther I wull.”
“Come, Colin!” interrupted Harry Blount, “if you have any good counsel to give us, pray don’t withhold it. We can’t get sleep, standing at an angle of forty-five degrees. Why should we not try to change our position by seeking another place?”
“Well, Harry, as you have made the request, I’ll tell you what’s just come into my mind. I only feel astonished it didn’t occur to any of us sooner.”
“Mother av Moses!” cried Terence, jocularly adopting his native brogue; “and why don’t you out with it at wanse? You Scatch are the thrue rid-tape of society.”
“Never mind, Colly!” interposed Blount; “there’s no time to listen to Terry’s badinage. We’re all too sleepy for jesting: tell us what you’ve got in your mind?”
“All of ye do as you see me, and I’ll be your bail, ye’ll sleep sound till the dawn o’ the day. Goodnight!”
As Colin pronounced the salutation he sank down to the bottom of the ravine, where, stretched longitudinally, he might repose, without the slightest danger of being awakened by slipping from his couch.
On seeing him thus disposed, the others only wondered they had not thought of the thing before.