“No, no,” said Flemington, “this never goes out of my hand.”
“That’s you!” exclaimed the beggar, with some admiration. “Put it back. A’ ken it.”
He unhooked his leather bag, which hung inside the cart on its front board. This Archie perceived to be made, apparently for additional strength, of two thicknesses of wood. Skirling Wattie slid the inner plank upwards, and the young man saw a couple of sealed letters hidden behind it, one of which was addressed to himself.
“Tak’ yon,” said the beggar, as the sound of a horse’s tread was heard not far off, “tak’ it quick an’ syne awa’ ye gang! Mind ye, a gang ilka twa days frae Montrose to Brechin, an a’m aye skirlin’ as a gang.”
“And do you take this one and have it sent on from Brechin,” said Archie hurriedly, handing him the letter he had written to Madam Flemington.
The other wagged the back of his head, and laid a finger against the rim of his bonnet.
Archie struck into the fields by the pond, and had time to drop down behind a whin-bush before an inoffensive-looking farmer went by on his way between the two towns.
The beggar continued his progress, singing to himself, and Flemington, who did not care to face the mill and the curious eyes of the tow-headed little girl again, took a line across country back to Balnillo.
He hated the tow-headed little girl.