“They’ve given me the worst,” said the old man, simply; “and I cannot blame them, for, as the keeper truly remarked, I can do nothing with the gun,”—still less with the rifle, he might have added! “At the same time, I confess it would have added somewhat to the zest of the day if Ivor had allowed me some degree of hope. He thought I didn’t overhear him, but I did; for they give me credit for greater deafness than I deserve.”
There was something so pitiful, yet half amusing, in the way in which this was said, that Jackman suddenly grasped the old gentleman’s hand.
“Mr MacRummle,” he said firmly, “will you do me a favour?”
“Certainly, with pleasure—if I can.”
“You can—and you shall. It is this: change places and rifles with me.”
“My dear, kind sir, you don’t know what you ask. My rifle is an old double-barrel muzzle loader, and at the white rock you wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance. I know the place well, having often passed it in fishing excursions up the burns. Besides, I never used a repeating rifle in my life. I couldn’t manage it, even if I were to try.”
“Mr MacRummle, are you not a Highlander?”
“I believe I am!” replied the old man, drawing himself up with a smile.
“And is not that equivalent to saying that you are a man of your word?”
“Well—I suppose it is so—at least it should be so.”