In his office he found Captain Cameron in a state of distraction that rendered him incapable of either coherent thought or speech. “What now, Rae? Where have you been? What news have you? My God, this thing is driving me mad! Penal servitude! Think of it, man, for my son! Oh, the scandal of it! It will kill me and kill his sister. What's your report? Come, out with it! Have you seen Mr. Sheratt?” He was pacing up and down the office like a beast in a cage.
“Tut, tut, Captain Cameron,” said Mr. Rae lightly, “this is no way for a soldier to face the enemy. Sit down and we will just lay out our campaign.”
But the Captain's soldiering, which was of the lightest, had taught him little either of the spirit or of the tactics of warfare. “Campaign!” he exclaimed. “There's no campaign about it. It's a complete smash, horse, foot, and artillery.”
“Nonsense, Captain Cameron!” exclaimed Mr. Rae more briskly than his wont, for the Captain irritated him. “We have still fighting to do, and hence we must plan our campaign. But first let us get comfortable. Here Davie,” he called, opening the office door, “here, mend this fire. It's a winter's day this,” he continued to the Captain, “and goes to the marrow.”
Davie, a wizened, clean-shaven, dark-visaged little man, appeared with a scuttle of coal. “Ay, Davie; that's it! Is that cannel?”
“Ay, Sir, it is. What else? I aye get the cannel.”
“That's right, Davie. It's a gran' coal.”
“Gran' it's no',” said Davie shortly, who was a fierce radical in politics, and who strove to preserve his sense of independence of all semblance of authority by cultivating a habit of disagreement. “Gran' it's no',” he repeated, “but it's the best the Farquhars hae, though that's no' saying much. It's no' what I call cannel.”
“Well, well, Davie, it blazes finely at any rate,” said Mr. Rae, determined to be cheerful, and rubbing his hands before the blazing coal.
“Ay, it bleezes,” grumbled Davie, “when it's no' smootherin'.”