Two plaids were knitted
into a litter, a log of a man named Wheatman was bundled into it, and off
we started breakfastless, as I said before."
"I'm very grateful to you, Mistress Margaret," said I.
"Don't be silly!" she answered very sharply. "It is no praise to tell me
I acted with common decency. And you weren't bundled in!"
"I was not praising you, madam," I retorted, quick as ever to return like
for like. "I was thanking you, and I venture, with respect, to thank you
again."
"Bother old Bloggs!" she said, suddenly all of a glow.
"Bloggs? Who's Bloggs?" asked the Colonel, plainly enjoying the fun.
"A rascally schoolmaster," she explained, "who flogged Oliver into a
precision of speech which I find most trying. But I must not miscall the
dear old man, for I stole his supper."
"I wish he'd flogged him into precision on a staircase," said the
Colonel. "Damme, I am hungry."
"I'm thinking there'll be a dub of water in the bottom yonder," said the
chieftain, "and Mistress Waynflete shall, if she will, take her first meal
Highland fashion."
As I firmly declined to be carried another yard, the Highlanders unmade
my litter and resumed their plaids.
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