Grant (after we had dined).—Well, thanks to Clifford’s chucky-stone soup, his delicious fritto of trout, our landlady’s excellent mutton-chops, and your omelet, we have dined like princes.
Clifford.—I am now hungry for nothing but a narrative. Come, Mr. Macpherson, as we are to lose you to-morrow, I must remind you that you are still in my book for some story about Old Stachcan, the man with the pistol, I mean, whose portrait we saw at Castle Grant. Pray do not hesitate to clear off your score.
Dominie.—I need not say, Mr. Clifford, that since you and your friends here are so good as to accept of such poor coin as my bit stories, in return for all the kindness and condescension which I have received from you, it is well my part to pay it readily, and without a grudge. But what I had to tell you about Old Stachcan was more an account of the man than any very parteeklar story about him. Now, as you will pass by the very bit where he lay concealed, I would rather leave it to my friend Sergeant Archy Stewart, who knows more about him than I do, to give you his history on the spot.
Grant.—Well, since that is the case, Mr. Macpherson, I shall undertake to tell a story for you. And instead of that which you were to tell us about one Grant, I shall give you a legend which I have heard of two lairds of that name.
Clifford.—Provided you do not on that account make your story twice as long as Mr. Macpherson’s would have been, I for one am contented.
Grant.—If I should do so, you have your resource, Clifford, you may go to sleep, you know; and if you do, I shall perhaps have the pleasure of singing, in the words of Scott’s Water Sprite,—
“Good luck to your fishing.”
Clifford.—No more of that, an thou lovest me, Hal.