"Just that; a tinker from Perth, and my name's Robertson. I'm a Struan, ye ken. The Struans,—the real Struans,—are a' tinkers or pipers. In oor family, my elder brother fell heir to my father's pipes, so I had just to take to the tinkering. But we're joint heirs to my father's fondness for a dram. Ye havena a wee drop on ye?"
"Not a drop," I remarked.
"That's a disappointment. I was kind o' feart ye wouldna, when I asked ye."
"How so?"
"Oh! ye don't look like a man that wasted your substance. More like a seller o' Bibles, or maybe a horse doctor."
I laughed at the queer comparison, and he looked out at me from under his shaggy, red eyebrows.
"Have a bite o' breakfast wi' me. I like to crack to somebody when I'm eatin'. It helps the digestion."
"No, thank you," I said. "I have breakfasted already."
"It's good meat, man. The rabbit's fresh. I can guarantee it, for it was runnin' half an hour ago. Try a leg."
I refused, but, as he seemed crestfallen, I took the drumstick in my hand and ate the meat slowly from it; and never did rabbit taste so good.