The younger of them was of much the same general appearance as
Maclachlan, though by the look of him a simpler and sweeter man. The
other, a middle-aged, domineering man with a powerful face, looked angrily
at me as I handed him my dispatch.
He read it impatiently, threw it down beside the map, and said, "They're
coming on to-night, Davie." Then, curtly to me, "Your name, sir?"
"Wheatman of the Hanyards."
"Hanyards? Humph! Are you an Irishman?"
"No, my lord. Not even a Scotchman!"
He glared at me, but his companion laughed, and said, "That's one under
your short ribs, Geordie!"
"Damn the Irish!" cried Murray. "They're the ruination of the whole
business, Davie, and ye know it."
"Of course they are," he replied, "but that's no reason for telling it to
an English loon who thinks less of a Scotchman than he does of a pickelt
herring."
"That may be, my lord," said I to him, "but I think so well of one
Scottish lady that I'm proud to be her humble courier." And I handed him
his letter.
"Man! man!" he said ecstatically, as he ripped it open, "ye're welcome as
sunshine in December.
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