“He tell’t me to come in-by to the muckle hoose and speer for him,” said the other. “There was a sang he was needin’. He was seekin’ to lairn it, for he liket it fine, an’ he tell’t me to come awa’ to the hoose and lairn him. Dod! maybe he’s forgotten. Callants like him’s whiles sweer to mind what they say, but auld stocks like you an’ me’s got mair sense.”
“I do not believe a word of it,” protested Balnillo.
“Hoots! ye’ll hae to try, or the puir lad ’ll no get his sang,” exclaimed Skirling Wattie, smiling broadly. “Just you cry on him to come down the stair, an’ we’ll awa’ ahint the back o’ yon wa’, an’ a’ll lairn him the music! It’s this way.”
He unscrewed the chanter and blew a few piercing notes. The sound flew into the judge’s face like the impact of a shower of pebbles. He clapped his hands to his ears.
“I tell you Mr. Flemington is not here!” he bawled, raising his voice above the din. “He is gone. He is at Ardguys by this time.”
“Man, is yon true? Ye’re no leein’?” exclaimed Wattie, dropping his weapon.
“Is yon the way to speak to his lordship?” said the deep voice of Andrew Robieson, who had come up silently, his arms full of wood, behind the beggar’s cart.
“Turn this vagabond away!” exclaimed Balnillo, almost beside himself. “Send for the men; bring a horsewhip from the stable! Impudent rogue! Go, Robieson—quick, man!”
But Wattie’s switch was in his hand, and the dogs were already turning; before the elder had time to reach the stables, he had passed out under the clock and was disappearing between the trees of the avenue. He had learned what he wished to know, and the farther side of Brechin would be the best place for him for the next few days. He reflected that fortune had favoured him in keeping Captain Logie out of the way. There would have been no parleying with Captain Logie.