"How about the shooting, Cecil? Sydney said you had not very good
sport."
"Why-—no, not till I joined Rainsforth's party."
"Where was your moor?"
"In Lanarkshire," rather unwillingly.
"Eh," said Allen, in a peculiar soft languid tone, that meant
diversion. "Near L—--?"
"Yes."
Then Jock burst out into laughter inexplicable at first, but Allen
made his voice gentler and graver, as he said, "You don't mean
Kilnaught?" and then he too joined Jock in laughter, as the latter
cried—-
"Another victim to McNab of Kilnaught! He certainly is the canniest
of Scots."
"He revenges the wrongs of Scotland on innocent young Guardsmen."
"Well, I'm sure there could not be a more promising advertisement."
"That's just it!" said Jock. "Moor and moss. How many acres of
heather?"
"How was I to expect a man of family to be a regular swindler?"
"Hush! hush, my dear fellow! Roderick Dhu was a man of family. It
is the modern form."
"But I saw his keeper."
"Oh!" cried Allen. "I know! Old Rory! Tells you a long story in
broad Scotch, of which you understand one word here and there about
his Grace the Deuke, and how many miles—-miles Scots—-he walked."
"I can see Evelyn listening, and saying 'yes,' at polite intervals!"
"How many birds did you actually see?"
"Well, I killed two brace and a half the first day.
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