him think we are wanting in hospitality at Dunroe."

"I'll take care of him, father."

"Quite right, Ken. What are you going to do to-day?"

"Take him up to the Black Pools and try for a salmon, and go afterwards
with the guns across the moor up Glen Doy, and then right up the Ten
after a hare or two. After that we could take the boat, and--"

"I think your programme is long enough for to-day, Ken," said The
Mackhai dryly. "You will excuse me, Mr Blande," he continued, with
formal politeness; "I have some letters to write."

"How about the deer, father?"

"Shon is packing them off for the South, my boy. Good morning."

The Mackhai walked stiffly out of the room, and Kenneth seized a plate
and knife and fork, after which he cut a triangle of a solid nature out
of a grouse pie, and passed the mass of juicy bird, gelatinous gravy,
and brown crust to his guest.

"I couldn't, indeed I couldn't!" cried Max.

"But you must," cried Kenneth, leaping up. "I'm going to ring for some
more hot coffee!"

"No, no, don't, pray!" cried Max, rising from the table.

"Oh, all right," said Kenneth, in an ill-used manner; "but how am I to
be hospitable if you won't eat? Come on, then, and I'll introduce you
to Long Shon. I'll bet a shilling he has got Scood helping him, and so
greasy that he won't be fit to touch."

Max stared, and Kenneth laughed at his wonderment.

"Didn't you hear what my father said? Shon has been skinning and
breaking up the deer."

"Breaking up the deer?"

"Well, not with a hammer, of course. Doing what a butcher does--cutting
them up in joints, you'd call it. Come along."

He led the way into the hall, seized his cap, and went on across the old
castle court, stopping to throw a stone at a jackdaw, perched upon one
of the old towers.

"He's listening for Donald. That's his place where he practises. I
daresay he's up there now, only we can't stop to see."

Outside the old castle they were saluted by a trio of yelps and barks,
the three dogs, after bounding about their master, smelling Max's legs
suspiciously, Sneeshing, of the short and crooked legs, pretending that
he had never seen a pair of trousers before, and taking hold of the
material to test its quality, to Max's horror and dismay.

"Oh, he won't bite!" cried Kenneth; "it's only his way."

"But even a scratch from a dog's tooth might produce hydrophobia," said
Max nervously.

"Not with Scotch dogs," said Kenneth, laughing.