"Confound your self-conceit."
Here Flamingo and Twig came in.
"Good morning, Mr Brail."
"Good morning."
"All ready for the start, I see," said Twig. "Why, Felix, what is Mr Brail's man doing with your gun?"
"Cleaning it, and filling these caps anew with fresh percussion powder: the old has mildewed, or got damp, he tells me. Indeed, the last time I shot, it was not one in three that exploded."
"Mind how you play with those caps," said I; but before I could proceed——
"Sally, make haste and get breakfast," bawled Twig. "Do you hear?"
"Yes, massa," squeaked Sal from the profundities of the back premises.
"Why, Felix," continued our friend, "there has been another burglary last night: My spleuchan, as Rory Macgregor calls it, has been ravished of its treasures."