“There it is—look. A good bit down the hill, on the open ground near the forest. If you have good eyes, you can see it from here. Look, just behind the ridge. D’you see?”
“I see. Great luck to you. Do good work, and teach that rascal Ivor to respect your powers with the rifle. Come along, Quin.”
“But really, my young friend, it is too good, too self-denying of you to—”
He stopped, for Jackman and Quin were already striding down the mountain on their way to the white rock.
MacRummle had been somewhat excited by the enthusiasm of his young friend and the novelty of his situation. To say truth, he would much rather have been pottering along the banks of one of his loved Highland streams, rod in hand, than crouching in the best pass of the Eagle Cliff in expectation of red-deer; but being an amiable and sympathetic man, he had been fired by the enthusiasm of the household that morning, and, seeing that all were going to the drive, including the laird, he made up his mind to brace himself up to the effort, and float with the current. His enthusiasm had not cooled when he reached the Eagle Cliff, and Jackman’s kindness, coupled with hope and the repeating rifle, increased it even to white heat. In which condition he sat down on a rock, removed his hat, and wiped his bald, perspiring head, while a benignant smile illuminated his glowing features.
About the same time, Barret and Junkie having selected a convenient mass of rock as their outlook, so that they could command the pass for some distance in both directions without exposing themselves to view, rested the rifle against the cliff and began to talk. Soon the young man discovered that the little boy, like many other mischievous boys, was of an exceedingly inquiring disposition. Among other things, he not only began an intelligent inquiry about the locks of a rifle, but a practical inquiry with his fingers, which called for remonstrance.
“Do you know, Junkie, that this is the very spot where your Cousin Milly fell?” said Barret, by way of directing the urchin’s thoughts into a safer channel.
“Is it? Oh, dear, what a thump she must have come down!”
“Yes, indeed, a dreadful thump—poor thing. She was trying to get flowers at the time. Do you know that she is exceedingly fond of flowers?”
“Oh, don’t I? She’s got books full of them—all pasted in with names printed under them. I often wonder what she sees in flowers to be so fond of them. I don’t care a button for them myself, unless they smell nice. But I often scramble after them for her.”