“D'ye ken me, Alec?” said the man.
He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman, but his hair was in a cue.
“Come in, Duncan,” said my father, quietly. “Davy, run out for wood.”
Loath as I was to go, I obeyed. As I came back dragging a log behind me I heard them in argument, and in their talk there was much about the Congress, and a woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailing southward.
“We'll have two thousand Highlanders and more to meet the fleet. And ye'll sit at hame, in this hovel ye've made yeresel” (and he glanced about disdainfully) “and no help the King?” He brought his fist down on the pine boards.
“Ye did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,” said my father, dryly.
Our visitor did not answer at once.
“The Yankee Rebels ’ll no help the House of Stuart,” said he, presently. “And Hanover's coom to stay. Are ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?”
I remember wondering why he said Ritchie.
“I'll no take a hand in this fight,” answered my father.