“Less luck than that will have to be doing us,” said Kilbride, fumbling at the painter of the boat. “The hoy sets sail for Calais in an hour or two, and it's plain from your letter we'll be best to be taking her round that length.”
“No, not Calais,” said I. “It's too serious a business with me for that. I'm wanting England, and wanting it unco fast.”
“Oh, Dhe!” said my countryman, “here's a fellow with the appetite of Prince Charlie and as likely to gratify it. What for must it be England, loachain?”
“I can only hint at that,” I answered hastily, “and that in a minute. Are ye loyal?”
“To a fine fellow called MacKellar first and to my king and country after?”
“The Stuarts?” said I.
He cracked his thumb. “It's all by with that,” said he quickly and not without a tone of bitterness.
“The breed of them has never been loyal to me, and if I could wipe out of my life six months of the cursedest folly in Forty-five I would go back to Scotland with the first chance and throw my bonnet for Geordie ever after like the greasiest burgess ever sold a wab of cloth or a cargo of Virginia in Glasgow.”
“Then,” I said, “you and me's bound for England this night, for I have that in my knowledge should buy the safety of the pair of us,” and I briefly conveyed my secret.
He softly whistled with astonishment.