"Hold up, fellows," cried the Sunburst, at last, puffing audibly. But the piper continued pacing up and down, forgetting everything in the furore of his enthusiasm except the moaning and shrieking of his instrument.
"Hold up, I say. Shut off your infernal drone. We can't hear ourselves think."
"'Tis the wind wailing on Craig-Ellachie I hear," said he of the Caledonian names.
"I think it's delirium tremens. Take a nip of the whey. That'll cure you. Here, Indigo, tap the geyser again for Sawnie."
Logan was not the man to set up frivolous punctilios against such an order as Idler's.
"There's medicine for the inner mon," he said, smacking his lips with gusto.
"Medicinal, eh? If you happen to take an overdose it's a medicinal spree, I suppose."
"I say, isn't tomorrow the Fourth?" cried Sunburst. "Play something patriotic, Sawnie, 'Hull's Victory,' or 'Lady Washington's Reel.'"
"There's nane o' them known to me or my instrument," said the minstrel. "It's a Scotch pipe and will play nane but the auld tunes of Scotland."
"Scotland! What's Scotland?" asked Idler.