“Laddie,” answered Sir Hector mildly, “what wi’ sunstroke an’ the bottle, ye’re no juist reesponsible for the clatter o’ your feckless tongue——” “Tongue, sir, tongue? D’ye dare suggest I’m not perfectly sober?” “Aye, I dare that!” nodded Sir Hector; “I dare suggest that what wi’ sun an’ the bottle ye’ll be seein’ smugglers crawlin’ up y’r arrms an’ legs gin ye drink ony mair.... Man, ye’re growin’ purple i’ the face, y’r eyne be rollin’ in y’r heid, an’ ye look sae uncanny an’ talk sae——” “Talk, is it—talk!” roared the Captain, shaking his fist. “At the least I talk English and you, like the bog-trotting Irishman y’are, and be——” Uttering an inarticulate roar, Sir Hector leapt from his chair, bounded across the room, and Captain Panter of the Third found himself whirled aloft in mighty hands that held him pinned fast between two of the ceiling-beams, breathless, shaken and utterly confounded. “O man,” quoth Sir Hector in bitter apostrophe, “can ye no’ ken a Scot when ye see him? Ye muckle fule, can ye no’ see the differ’ betwixt a Scot an’ the lave o’ puir humanity? D’ye no’ ken that the Scots be the salt o’ the airth? An’, O man, I’m a Scot o’ the Scots, being Hector Lauchlan MacLean o’ Duart. Ma puir wee mannie, I’ve ate things the like o’ yesel’ in a sallet afore to-day an’ ne’er kenned it!” Having thus delivered himself, Sir Hector set the dazed and breathless Captain gently upon his feet, a very astonished officer, who gulped, stared and was fumbling in a numb sort of fashion for the hilt of his sword, when the young Ensign reappeared once more, more dusty and heated than ever. “Sir,” said he, “we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of our man though we’ve turned the place upside down.” Captain Panter stared vaguely at the speaker, and from him to a certain spot between the beams above his head. “Upside ... down!” he murmured. “Oh! Ah! Fall in your men!” Having said which, the Captain walked slowly out of the inn, looking neither right nor left. And presently the Sergeant’s voice was heard uplifted in divers inarticulate roarings; followed a ring and clatter of muskets and, with martial swing and measured tramp, Captain Panter and his dusty company marched away through the mellowing afternoon sunshine. And, after some while, appeared Mr. Muddle’s head at the open lattice. “Arl clear, Peter!” he announced, whereupon Mr. Bunkle nodded and emitted a cheery whistle, which was immediately answered by those ghostly rappings, such as Sir John remembered to have heard once before. “Aweel, that’s over, God be thankit!” quoth Sir Hector fervently. “Aye, sir!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “’Twere a bit orkard-like for Jarge, but then every summer ’as its rainy day!” The rattle of a chain, a scuffling sound in the chimney, and Mr. Potter stepped forth in more woeful plight than ever by reason of soot. “Havers, Geordie man, an’ how are ye the noo?” inquired Sir Hector. “Are ye wounded?”