Three Boys Part 11

Boom--boom--boom--boom.

"What's that?"

"That? why, the dinner-gong, of course. Just time to have a wash first.

We don't dress down here. That's what father always says to visitors who bring bobtails and chokers. Bring a bobtail with you?"

"I brought my dress suit."

"Then, if I were you, I would make it up into a parcel, and send it back to London. What's your name, did you say?"

"Maxi--Max Blande."

"To be sure! Max Blande, Esquire, Russell Square, per Macbrayne and Caledonian Railway; and we'll catch a salmon, or you shall, and send to your father same time. Come on; run. Hi, dogs, then! Bruce, boy!

Chevy, Dirk! Come along, Sneeshing! Oh, man, you can't half run!"

"No," said Max, panting heavily, and nearly falling over a projecting piece of rock.

"I say, mind! Why, if you fell there, you'd go right down into the sea, and it would be salt water instead of soup."

Kenneth laughed heartily at his own remark as they ran on, to pause at the steep slope up to the castle, where the dogs stopped short, as if well drilled as to the boundaries they were to pa.s.s, while the two lads once more crossed the gloomy ruined quadrangle and entered the house.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE EFFECTS OF THE SAIL.

"Look sharp! Father doesn't like to be kept waiting. Don't stop to do anything but change your wet things. That's your room. You can look right away and see Mull one side and Skye the other."

Kenneth half pushed his visitor into a bed-room, banged the door, and went off at a run, leaving Max Blande standing helpless and troubled just inside, and heartily wishing he was at home in Russell Square.

Not that the place was uncomfortable, for it was well furnished, but he was tired and faint for want of food; everything was strange; the wind and sea were playing a mournful duet outside--an air in a natural key which seemed at that moment more depressing than a midnight band or organ in Bloomsbury on a foggy night.

But he had no time for thinking. Expecting every moment to hear the gong sound again, and in nervous dread of keeping his host waiting, he hurriedly changed, and was a long way on towards ready when there was a bang at the door.

"May I come in?" shouted Kenneth. But he did not say it till he had opened the door and was well inside.

"Oh, your hair will do," he continued. "You should have had it cut short. It's better for bathing. Old Donald cuts mine. He shall do yours. No, no; don't stop to put your things straight. Why, hallo!

what are you doing?"

"Only taking a little scent for my handkerchief."

"Oh my! Why, you're not a girl! Come along. Father's so particular about my being in at dinner. He don't mind any other time."

Kenneth hurried his visitor down-stairs, and, as they reached the hall, a sharp voice said,--

"Mr Blande, I suppose! How do you do? Well, Kenneth, did you have a good run? Nice day for a sail."

Max had not had time to speak, as the tall, aquiline-looking man, with keen eyes and closely-cut blackish-grey hair, turned and walked on before them into the dining-room. The lad felt a kind of chill, as if he had been repelled, and was not wanted; and there was a sharp, haughty tone in his host's voice which the sensitive visitor interpreted to mean dislike.

As he followed into the room, he had just time to note that, in spite of his coldness, his host was a fine, handsome, _distingue_ man, and that he looked uncommonly well in the grey kilt and dark velvet shooting-jacket, which seemed to make him as picturesque in aspect as one of the old portraits on the walls.

Max had also time to note that a very severe-looking man-servant in black held open and closed the door after them, following him up, and, as he took the place pointed out by Kenneth, nearly knocking him off his balance by giving his chair a vicious thrust, with the result that he sat down far too quickly.

"Amen!" said the host sharply, and in a frowning, absent way.

"I haven't said grace, father," exclaimed Kenneth.

"Eh! haven't you? Ah, well, I thought you had. What's the soup, Grant?"

"Hotch-potch, sir," replied the butler.

"Confound hotch-potch! Tell that woman not to send up any more till I order it."

He threw himself back in the chair as the butler handed the declined plate second-hand to the guest and then took another to Kenneth.

"'Taint bad when you're hungry," whispered the lad across the table.

Max glanced at his host with a shiver of dread, but The Mackhai was in the act of pouring himself out a gla.s.s of sherry, which he tossed off, and then in an abstracted way put on his gla.s.ses and began to read a letter.

"It's all right. He didn't hear," whispered Kenneth, setting a good example, and finishing his soup before Max had half done, for there was a novelty in the dinner which kept taking his attention from his food.

"Sherry to Mr Blande," said the host sharply; and the butler came back from the sideboard, where he was busy, giving Max an ill-used look, which said plainly,--

"Why can't he help himself?"

Then aloud,--

"Sherry, sir?"

"No, thank you."

The decanter stopper went back into the bottle with a loud click, the decanter was thumped down, and the butler walked back past Kenneth's chair.

"Hallo, Granty! waxey?" said Kenneth; but the butler did not condescend to answer.

"Much sport, father?"

"Eh? Yes, my boy. Two good stags."

"I say, father, I wish I had been there."

"Eh? Yes, I wish you had, Ken. But you had your guest to welcome. I hope you had a pleasant run up from Glasgow."

"Pretty good," faltered Max, who became scarlet as he saw Kenneth's laughing look.

"That's right," said the host. "You must show Mr Blande all you can, Ken," he continued, softening a little over the salmon. "Sorry we have no lobster sauce, Mr Blande. This is not a lobster sh.o.r.e. Make Kenneth take you about well."