Archie was exasperated. He rose, without further noticing the child, and hurried towards the mill. When he had reached the place where the stream dived through a stone arch under the road he found she was following him. He heard the pad, pad, of her naked soles in the mud.
All at once she was moved to answer his question.
“Yon’s Skirlin’ Wattie!” she yelled after him.
But he strode on, taking no notice; fortune was playing into his hand so wonderfully that he was ceasing to be surprised.
In the little yard of the cottage he found a small crowd of children, two women, and the miller’s man, collected round the strangest assortment of living creatures he had ever seen. The name ‘Skirlin’ Wattie’ had conveyed something to him, and he was prepared for the extraordinary, but his breath was almost taken away by the oddness of what he saw.
In the middle of the group was a stout wooden box, which, mounted on very low wheels, was transformed into the likeness of a rough go-cart, and to this were yoked five dogs of differing breeds and sizes. A half-bred mastiff in the wheel of the team was taking advantage of the halt and lay dozing, his jowl on his paws, undisturbed by the blast of sound which poured over his head, whilst his companion, a large, smooth-haired yellow cur, stood alert with an almost proprietary interest in what was going on awake in his amber eyes. The couple of collies in front of them sniffed furtively at the bystanders, and the wire-haired terrier, which, as leader, was harnessed singly in advance of the lot, was sharing a bannock with a newly-breeched man-child, the sinister nature of whose squint almost made the dog’s confidence seem misplaced.
The occupant of the cart was an elderly man, whom accident had deprived of the lower part of his legs, both of which had been amputated just below the knee. He had the head of Falstaff, the shoulders of Hercules, and lack of exercise had made his thighs and back bulge out over the sides of his carriage, even as the bag of his pipes bulged under his elbow. He was dressed in tartan breeches and doublet, and he wore a huge Kilmarnock bonnet with a red knob on the top. The lower half of his face was distended by his occupation, and at the appearance of Flemington by the gate, he turned on him, above the billows of crimson cheek and grizzled whisker, the boldest pair of eyes that the young man had ever met. He was a masterly piper, and as the tune stopped a murmur of applause went through the audience.
“Man, ye’re the most mountaineous player in Scotland!” said the miller’s man, who was a coiner of words.
“Aye, dod, am I!” replied the piper.
“Hae?” continued the miller’s man, holding out an apple.