“Father!” exclaimed Duncan at last.
But the old man answered not. Some strong feeling was evidently surging within him, for his mouth was tightly pursed and his features worked strangely. Suddenly he burst into tears, but the weakness was momentary. With an effort that seemed to concentrate the accumulated energy of all the McKays from Adam downwards, he again pursed his mouth and looked at his younger son with a stern persistent frown, worthy of the most rugged of Highlanders in his fiercest mood.
Duncan was inexpressibly touched.
“Father,” said he again, “I’ve been a baad, baad son to you.”
“Tuncan,” retorted the old man, in a husky but firm voice, “I’ve been a baad, baad father to you.”
“Let us shake hands—whatever,” said the son.
The two silently grasped each other’s hands with all the little strength that remained to them. Then old McKay turned suddenly to his henchman.
“Little Bill,” said he, in a tone that was not for an instant to be disregarded, “shove me down to the futt of the garden—you rascal!”
With a promptitude little short of miraculous the Highlander was wheeled away, and thus the momentous meeting was abruptly brought to a close.