“Come then, Davie, that will do. Clear out,” said Mr. Rae to the old servant, who was cleaning up the hearth with great diligence and care.
But Davie was not to be hurried. He had his regular routine in fire-mending, from which no power could move him. “Ay, Sir,” he muttered, brushing away with his feather besom. “I'll clear oot when I clear up. When a thing's no' dune richt it's no dune ava.”
“True, Davie, true enough; that's a noble sentiment. But will that no' do now?” Mr. Rae knew himself to be helpless in Davie's hands, and he knew also that nothing short of violence would hasten Davie from his “usual.”
“Ay, that'll dae, because it's richt dune. But that's no' what I call cannel,” grumbled Davie, glowering fiercely at the burning coal, as if meditating a fresh attack.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Rae, “tell the Farquhars about it.”
“Ay, Sir, I will that,” said Davie, as he reluctantly took himself off with his scuttle and besom.
The Captain was bursting with fretful impatience. “Impudent old rascal!” he exclaimed. “Why don't you dismiss him?”
“Dismiss him!” echoed Mr. Rae in consternation. “Dismiss him!” he repeated, as if pondering an entirely new idea. “I doubt if Davie would consider that. But now let us to work.” He set two arm-chairs before the fire, and placed a box of cigars by the Captain's elbow. “I have seen Sheratt,” he began. “I'm quite clear it is not in his hands.”
“In whose then?” burst forth the Captain.
Mr. Rae lit his cigar carefully. “The whole matter, I believe, lies now with the Chairman of the Board of Directors, Sir Archibald Brodie.”