What is your dinner-hour, Mr North?
NORTH.
Sharp seven—seven sharp.
TALBOYS.
And now 'tis but half-past two. Four hours for work. The Cladich—or whatever you call him—is rumbling disorderly in the wood; and I noted, as I crossed the bridge, that he was proud as a piper of being in Spate—but he looks more rational down in yonder meadows—and——heaven have mercy on me! there's Loch Awe!!
NORTH.
I thought it queer that you never looked at it.
TALBOYS.
Looked at it? How could I look at it? I don't believe it was there. If it was—from the hill-top I had eyes but for the Camp—the Tents and the Trees—and "Thee the spirit of them all!" Let me have another eye-full—another soul-full of the Loch. But 'twill never do to be losing time in this way. Where's my creel—where's my creel?
NORTH.