“Malcolm, you have two enemies--a long tongue, and a strong conceit. You have little enough to be proud of, my man, and the less said the better. I advise you to mind what you’re about, and show suitable respect to your superiors, or as sure as judgment, you’ll go back to fish-guts.” While he spoke, Malcolm had been smoothing Kelpie all over with his palms; the moment the factor ceased talking, he ceased stroking, and with one arm thrown over the mare’s back, looked him full in the face. “Gien ye imaigine, Maister Crathie,” he said, “’at I coont it ony rise i’ the warl’ ’at brings me un’er the orders o’ a man less honest than he micht be, ye’re mista’en. I dinna think it’s pride this time; I wad ile Blue Peter’s lang butes till him, but I winna lee for ony factor atween this an’ Davy Jones.” It was too much. Mr Crathie’s feelings overcame him, and he was a wrathful man to see, as he strode up to the youth with clenched fist. “Haud frae the mere, for God’s sake, Maister Crathie,” cried Malcolm. But even as he spoke, two reversed Moorish arches of gleaming iron opened on the terror-quickened imagination of the factor a threatened descent from which his most potent instinct, that of self-preservation, shrank in horror. He started back white with dismay, having by a bare inch of space and a bare moment of time, escaped what he called Eternity. Dazed with fear he turned and had staggered half-way across the yard, as if going home, before he recovered himself. Then he turned again, and with what dignity he could scrape together said-- “MacPhail, you go about your business.” In his foolish heart he believed Malcolm had made the brute strike out. “I canna weel gang till Stoat comes hame,” answered Malcolm. “If I see you about the place after sunset, I’ll horsewhip you,” said the factor, and walked away, showing the crown of his hat.