“Oh, ay,” he said, “it’s no an ill specimen. Here’s”—and he dived once more into the hidden reservoir from whence came a sort of infantile murmur which had puzzled the visitors at first—“another. It’s a variety. Now ye see the twa kinds: them that are no licht in the colour are dark. I could scarcely gie ye my opinion which is the bonniest: What’s ca’ed the Skye breed are just the sauvage dougs that would have eaten up the country by this time if they hadna received a check by being made leddies’ pets of. One o’ my name was the first to tak’ the business in hand, and improve the breed. Yon lang, low-bodied creaturs, with nae legs to speak of, are the original stock, as the wild bushes are the stock of the rose tribe. My anes are an awfu’ improvement in pint o’ symmetry—and temper too. They have langer legs and no sae short a temper. Ye’ll hear a’ the world ower of the Rosmore breed. It’s just celebrated from one end o’ the country to anither. Lady Jean she was aye coming with orders; but I’m no fond of taking orders especially from foreign countries, like England and the like. I canna bide to send my dougs where they are ill fed or kept careless. There was ae lady that let twa o’ them, ane after the ither, get lost. She was a friend o’ the minister. I canna understand decent folk keeping on with sic friends. And as for the feeding o’ them, leddies are just maist inveterate, and ruins their health, whatever I can say. They’ll feed my doggies, just fresh from their guid halesome parridge, with sweet biscuits and bits of sugar, and every silly thing they can think of, and syne they’ll write and say the dougs are delicate. Naething of the kind! the dougs are nane delicate. It’s just the traitment; if you can think o’ onything mair foolish than that—beasts used to guid fresh country air, shut up in rooms with carpets and dirt of a’ kinds, and when they’re dowie and aff their meat, a dose o’ strong physic! And they ca’ that a kind home. I ca’ it just murder! and that’s a’ I’ve got to say.”
Rankin had worked himself to a point of vehemence which brought the moisture in great drops to his forehead, for the day was warm and so was the fire. But it cannot be said that his visitors were much affected by it. Sandy the groom, indeed, formed a sympathetic audience, but Archie and Marion were too young and foolish to be interested in the old gamekeeper. They played with the puppies, each choosing one. Marion held fast the one of light colour—Archie secured the dark grey. Their comments on their respective prizes ran on through Rankin’s speech. “Mine’s the bonniest!”—“No, I like mine best. Look at its funny little face.”—“Mine has no een at all—just a little spark out under the hair.”—“And look, the little brick that it is, showing fight,” said Archie in great triumph and elation.
The old gamekeeper wiped his brow, and looked on with a smile of grim amusement at the mimic fight going on between those two little balls of animated fur, “I would ca’ those two Donal’bane and Donal’dhu—as ye might say in a less cultivated tongue, Whitey and Darkie,” he said benevolently. “If ye would like to have the pair of them, I’ll not say no to the Hoose, even when it’s in a tenant’s hands. But ye maun mak up your minds, for I haven’t a doggie about the place that’s no bespoke afore it’s born, and I owe my duty to Lady Jean first.”
“I’m tired hearing of Lady Jean,” said Marion petulantly, throwing her puppy upon the bed.
“Aye, my Missie, are ye that?” said old Rankin: “ye’ll be tireder afore you’re done, for Lady Jean’s muckle thought of in this parish: and a tenant is just a tenant and nae mair—there’s no continuance in them. Your papaw and you will be just here the day and gane the morn. Ye canna expect to be thought upon like our ain folk.—Are ye wantin’ the puppy, Maister—— what’s the name, Sandy? I hae never maistered the name,” added the gamekeeper with polite disrespect. “Oh ay, now I mind—Rowland”—he pronounced the first syllable broadly like a street row—“I’m no sure,” he added thoughtfully, “but I may have ken’t your papaw before he went abroad.”
Archie paid no attention to this talk. He had a puppy in each hand comparing them, wondering which he might venture to buy. Dared he go to such an expense as to buy? Mrs. Brown, though lavish in many ways, had not been liberal in the matter of pocket money, and to spend money for a dog, a creature that would cost something to feed, and could do nothing to make up for the cost of it, would have seemed to her the most wicked of extravagances. Archie was forced by the habit of his life into a great timorousness about money. He did not feel himself justified in spending even a shilling. He looked at the little dogs and longed and hesitated. He had taken one up in each hand with a wild impulse of expenditure, of buying both—unheard of extravagance!—and then he put one down, feeling the cold shade as of Aunty Jane come over him. Then he bethought himself that his father was a rich man—ay! but then he would probably like to spend his money himself, not to give it to his son to spend. Then Archie put down the other dog upon the bed. But he did not abstract his eyes from the pleasing prospect; and presently a tempting demon suggested to him that about such a big house dogs would be wanted for the purpose of watching, if for nothing else; and he took one, the little dark grey one, up again. It was the bonniest little doggie he had ever seen—ready to play already, though it was such a small puppy, looking as wise as Solomon, though it was so silly; the greatest diversion possible in this dull country place, where there never would be anything to do. And two of them would be funnier still. Archie took up the rival in his other hand. He held them as if he were weighing them against each other like pounds of flesh, but no such thought was in his mind: he wondered if perhaps Rankin might not want to be paid at once. In case of delay there were a hundred chances that the money might be procured somehow. He might even ask his father—or Mr. Rowland might make him a present. He had bought a great many things for Marion, who, being a lassie, could be gratified in that way more than was possible for a man. A man didn’t want silks and things, or even brooches and rings, though Archie would not have disliked a pin. What a man liked was manly things—maybe a bonnie little beast of a doug. What bonnie little beasties they were! and they would be capital watch-dogs when they grew up. Would it do if he were to ask papa? If May wanted such a thing, she would ask in a moment. She might perhaps do it on her own account if she took a fancy to little Light and little Dark. Poor Archie was so absorbed in this question that he did not know what Rankin said.
He was roused by a sweep of the gamekeeper’s long arm, which swung over the bed for a moment, then suddenly came down upon one of the puppies and conveyed it swiftly away. Archie followed his movements with a gape of disappointment as he took up the coveted grey. He put out his hand to avert the second withdrawal. “Eh, man, leave the little beastie,” he said.
“Would you like to have it? You have naething to do but to say sae.”
“I have no money—with me—to pay for’t,” said Archie, with the profoundest sense of humiliation. He had come into his fortune, so to speak; but he had never felt so poor before.
The gamekeeper answered with a laugh. “There’s plenty of time for ye to put your siller in your pouch, my young gentleman—for I’ll no send ane of them out for sax weeks to come—or maybe mair. Ye can come and see them when you like, but I’ll no risk my credit for a wheen pounds, me that never sends out a doug but in the best condition and able to fend for themselves. Will I keep the twa for ye? Ye maun speak now, or for ever hold your tongue, for every puppy I have is ordered long before it’s born.”