The children, of course, were full of glee, and not altogether empty of mischief; and there were fortunately no infants of age so tender as to induce a squalling protest against the discomforts of a situation which could be neither understood nor appreciated.
“It iss a pleesant night, whatever,” remarked old McKay, lighting his pipe with a brand plucked from the fire which his family and the Davidsons shared in common; “an’ if it wass always like this, it iss myself that would not object to be a rud savitch.”
“I don’t know that a rud savitch is much worse than a white wan,” growled Duncan junior, in an under-tone.
“What iss that you say?” demanded the old man with a look of suspicion, for his hearing was imperfect.
“Surely the water must be boiling now, daddy?” said Elspie, by way of checking the conversation.
“I don’t know whuther it iss boilin’ or not,” answered Duncan senior, applying another brand to his pipe.
“Archie, boy!” exclaimed Dan Davidson, “you’re letting that goose roast to a cinder.”
“No, Dan, I’m not—but Billie can’t a-bear meat underdone, so it’s better to blacken the outside than have the inside raw.”
“Who iss that singing? Wheesht, boys,” said Fergus McKay, turning his head a little on one side as if to listen.
There was profound silence for a few moments as a rich manly voice was heard to swell forth from the neighbourhood of one of the camp-fires.