“Aye, and a better, pray God,” said Macdonald Bhain, fervently, looking after Ranald with loving eyes. There was no child in his home, and his brother's son was as his own.
Meanwhile Don had hurried on, leaving his team with Murdie that he might sing Ranald's praises to “the girls,” with whom Ranald was highly popular, although he avoided them, or perhaps because he did so, the ways of women being past understanding.
To Mrs. Murray and Maimie, who with the minister and Hughie, had come over to the supper, he went first with his tale. Graphically he depicted the struggle from its beginning to the last dramatic rush to the pile, dilating upon Ranald's skill and pluck, and upon the wonderful and hitherto unknown virtues of Farquhar's shiny blacks.
“You ought to see them!” cried Don. “You bet they never moved in their lives the way they did today. Tied him!” he continued. “Tied him! Beat him, I say, but Macdonald Bhain says 'Tied him'—Aleck McRae, who thinks himself so mighty smart with his team.”
Don forgot in his excitement that the McRaes and their friends were there in numbers.
“So he is,” cried Annie Ross, one of Aleck's admirers. “There is not a man in the Indian Lands that can beat Aleck and his team.”
“Well,” exulted Don, “a boy came pretty near it to-day.”
But Annie only stuck out her lip at him in the inimitable female manner, and ran off to add to the mischief that Don had already made between Ranald and his rival.
But now the day's work was over, and the hour for the day's event had come, for supper was the great event to which all things moved at bees. The long tables stood under the maple trees, spread with the richest, rarest, deadliest dainties known to the housewives and maidens of the countryside. About the tables stood in groups the white-aproned girls, tucked and frilled, curled and ribboned into all degrees of bewitching loveliness. The men hurried away with their teams, and then gave themselves to the serious duty of getting ready for supper, using many pails of water in their efforts to remove the black from the burnt wood of the brule.
At length the women lost all patience with them, and sent Annie Ross, with two or three companions, to call them to supper. With arms intertwined, and with much chattering and giggling, the girls made their way to the group of men, some of whom were engaged in putting the finishing touches to their toilet.