uggler and the
exciseman was executed with particular zeal and
spirit, Sir Toady Lion prancing and curvetting, as
Frank Kennedy, on an invisible steed, with Maid
Margaret before him on the saddle. So active was
the fight indeed, that the bold bad smuggler, Dirk,
assailed as to the upper part of his body by Sir
Toady, and with the Heir tugging at his legs, found
himself presently worsted and precipitated over the
cliff in place of Frank Kennedy. This ending
considerably disarranged the story, so that it was
with no little trouble that the pair of strutting
victors were induced to "play by the book," and to
accept (severally) death and captivity in the hold
of the smuggling lugger.

On the other hand, after I had read the
Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth Chapters of _Guy
Mannering_ to them in the original, it was
remarkable with what accuracy of detail Sweetheart
wrapped a plaid about her and played the witch, Meg
Merrilies, singing wild dirges over an imaginary
dead body, while Hugh John hid among the straw till
Sir Toady and Maid Margaret rushed in with
incredible hubbub and sat down to carouse like a
real gang of the most desperate characters.

Seated on a barrel of gunpowder, Sir Toady declared
that he smelt traitors in the camp, whereupon he
held a (paper) knife aloft in the air, and cried,
"If any deceive us or betray the gang, we will
destroy them--_thus!_"

"Yes," chimed in the rosebud mouth of Maid
Margaret, "and us will chop them into teeny-weeny
little bits wif a sausage minchine, and feed them
to our b-r-r-lood-hounds!"

"Little monsters!" cried Sweetheart, for the moment
forgetting her proper character of witch-wife.
Nevertheless, all in the Kairn of Derncleugh were
happy, save Hugh John, who declared that Scott's
heroes were always getting put under soft cushions
or up the chimney. "You can't really distinguish
yourself," he insisted, "in such situations!" And
he referred once more to the luck of a certain Mr.
James Hawkins, ship's boy, late of "Treasure
Island."

"It's the nobodies that have all the fun--real
heroes don't count!" he continued ruefully, as he
dusted himself from the bits of straw.

"Wait," said I; "you have not heard the third tale
from Guy Mannering. Then there will be lots for you