Now Andie's tale reminded him of one
he had already heard.
"She would ken that story afore," he said. "She was the story of
Uistean More M'Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore."
"It is no sic a thing," cried Andie. "It is the story of my
faither (now wi' God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your
beard," says he; "and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant
chafts!"
In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in
history, how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing
appears scarce feasible for Lowland commons. I had already
remarked that Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling
with our three MacGregors, and now, sure enough, it was to come.
"Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans," says Neil.
"Shentlemans!" cries Andie. "Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If God
would give ye the grace to see yoursel' the way that ithers see ye,
ye would throw your denner up."
There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black
knife was in his hand that moment.
There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg,
and had him down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what
I was doing.
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