"Americans—awful ones," whispered Miss Erith.
McKay rested his folded arms on the parapet and regarded the advance of the flashy man up the grassy slope below.
"I don't rent fishing privileges," he said amiably.
"That's all right. Name your price. No millionaire guy I ever heard of ever had enough money," returned the flashy man jocosely.
McKay, amused, shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "but I couldn't permit you to fish."
"Aw, come on, old scout! We heard you was American same as us.
That's my sister down there and her feller. My name's Jim
Macniff—some Scotch somewhere. That there feller is Harry Skelton.
Horses is our business—Spitalfields Mews—here's my card—"
pulling it out—"I'll come up on the bridge—"
"Never mind. What are you in Scotland for anyway?" inquired McKay.
"The Angus Dhu stables at Inverness—auction next Wednesday. Horses is our line, so we made it a holiday—"
"A holiday in the Banff country?"
"Sure, I ain't never seen it before. Is that your house?"