Sandy’s partners, meanwhile, having left the village as early as possible, had made so good progress that the three met at about the half-way point.

“Hello!” Len sang out gaily, as he caught sight of Sandy, “here’s our canny Scot! But why makest thou such a walking arsenal of thyself? ’Fraid of Injuns?”

“Weel,” was the slow reply, as the tall son of Saint Andrew glanced down at himself, “he needs a long shankit spoon wha sups kail wi’ the deil. I’m no likin’ neeknames as a rule, but may be ye’re no far wrang when you ca’ me an arsenal. Did ye obsairve the new trick I’ve learned?”

Stooping down, while the twinkle in his eyes belied the gravity of his face, he{104} solemnly pulled from his boot-leg the long butcher-knife with which the boys were wont to slice their bacon.

This was too much. Both tumbled upon the nearest bed of moss and made the rocky walls ring with shouts of laughter, but Sandy remained as grave as an undertaker.

“Laugh at leisure, ye may greet ere e’en,” he said in his proverbial style, adding, when they had checked their merriment, “Now if you’re wantin’ to hear a vera pretty tale, why I’m willin’ to tell ye, though you’ve not been ower respectfu’ to a puir body during the last five minutes or so.”

“Oh, go on Sandy, go on. We don’t mind you’re making yourself a scalp hunter from the wild west, if you like it. Go on, let’s have your story. What sort of a mare’s nest have you found this time?”

“I’m not sure ye quite heard my remark aboot bein’ respectfu’; an’ if I ha’ foond a mare’s nest, I’m thinking ye’ll find yoursel’ unco eenterested in the aiggs.”{105}

After this parting shot Sandy began to tell what he had seen and heard, as he lay on the edge of the cliff. Two of the men he knew, as we have seen, and his description of the third at once identified him in the minds of the rest as Old Bob.

“So that’s where you learned to carry a knife in your boot is it?”

“Ay,” admitted Sandy, “That’s where I learned it. I was tickled, dinna ye ken, wi’ the idea that a man like him, hating me as he did, should be teachin’ me sumthin’.”

“But that’s no way to carry a knife,” Max interrupted with fine contempt. “At least no gentleman would do so, though a gambler might.”

“How then?” asked Sandy, considerably crest-fallen. “Where does a gentleman usually carry his bowie-knife?”

“Down the back of his neck.”

“Weel, weel, what would my old grandmither up in Dundee say to that! This is what I’m thinkin’ she would remark, that a{106} wise man gets learnin’ frae them that has nane to themsel’s.”

This ten-strike scored to Scotch credit, they settled down again to their study of the new situation, the full meaning of which grew upon them as they talked it over.

“It strikes me,” said Sandy, “that it wad be a gude thing if Bushwick were to go directly back to town and see that Mr. Morris. Perhaps, considerin’ a’ the saircumstances, he would watch the rascals a wee bit. I suppose he’s na ower-fond o’ that blackleg, and maybe he wad come up on Saturday night, and so gie us a bit o’ help if we happened to be needin’ it. Meanwhile Brehm an’ mysel’ will put our castle in a state o’ defense, as it were.”

This course was decided upon. Len unslung his load of groceries, ammunition, the ever-welcome mail, and other purchases, and it was shouldered by Sandy, who gave him in return one of his pistols. Then Len started back toward town, caring little for the extra walk.{107}

The other two lads meanwhile ha............