‘You will hardly find that man of yours very useful,’ observed the sailor, as they were galloping down the Morphie road; ‘I cannot think why you brought him.’
Gilbert sat fuming; exasperation had impelled him to terrify Macquean, and, as soon as they had started, he realized the futility of his act.
‘The boy behind is worth two,’ he said.
‘There may be four or five of these rascals at the dovecot.’
‘We must just do our best,’ said Gilbert, rather curtly.
Somerville thought of his leg and sighed; how dearly he loved a fray no one knew but himself.
As they approached Morphie, they stopped to extinguish their lights, and he began, in consequence, to drive with what he considered great caution, though Gilbert was still forced to cling to the rail beside him; Macquean, under the hood, was rolled and jolted from side to side in a manner that tended to make him no happier. His companion, seldom a waster of words, gave him little comfort when he spoke.
‘Ye’ve no gotten a stick wi’ ye,’ he observed, as they bowled through the flying mud.
‘Na,’ said Macquean faintly.
‘Ye’ll need it.’