“Whaur did he get it?”
“At Culloden Moor.”
“They didna tell me onything aboot that.”
“Who tells you anything about Mr. Flemington? What do you know about him?”
“Heuch!” exclaimed Wattie, with contempt, “it’s mysel’ that should tell them! A ken mair aboot Flemington than ony ither body—a ken fine what’s brocht yon lad here. He’s seeking Logie, like a’body else, but he kens fine he’ll na get him—ay, does he!”
Callandar looked down from his tall horse upon the grotesque figure so close to the ground. He was furious at the creature’s assumption of knowledge.
“You are a piper?” said he.
“The best in Scotland.”
“Then keep your breath for piping and let other people’s business be,” he said sternly.
“Man, dinna fash. It’s King Geordie’s business and syne it’s mine. Him and me’s billies. Ay, he’s awa’, is he, Flemington?”