The men whispered together.  The Scot congratulated himself on his success; it would be a question of price, after all.

“We will do it for—­the wool.”

“Th’ ‘oo?—­oo ay! but hoo muckle o’ th’ ’oo? for ye ken—­”

“How muckle? why, all.”

“A’ the ’oo! ye blackguard, ye’re no blate.”

“Keep your temper, farmer, it is not worth our while to shear sheep for less than that.”

“De’il go wi’ ye then!” and he moved off in great dudgeon.

“Stop,” cried the captain, “you and I are acquainted—­you lived out Wellington way—­me and another wandered to your hut one day and you gave us our supper.”

“Ay, lad, I mind o’ ye the noo!”

“The jolliest supper ever I had—­a haggis you called it.”

“Ay, did I, my fine lad.  I cookit it till ye myssel.  Ye meicht help me for ane.”

“I will,” said Captain Ede; and a conference took place in a whisper between him and his men.

“It is a’ reicht the noo!” thought McLaughlan.

“We have an offer to make you,” said Ede, respectfully.

“Let us hear’t.”

“Our party is large; we want a cook for it, and we offer you the place in return for past kindness.”

“Me a cuik, y’ impudent vagabond!” cried the Caledonian, red as a turkey-cock; and, if a look could have crushed a party of eight, their hole had been their grave.

McLaughlan took seven ireful steps—­wide ones—­then his hot anger assumed a cold, sardonic form, he returned, and with blighting satire speered this question by way of gratifying an ironical curiosity.

“An’ whaat would ye ha’e the cheek t’offer a McLanghlan to cuik till ye, you that kens sae fine the price o’ wark?”

“Thirty shillings.”

“Thretty shilling the week for a McLaughlan!”

“The week,” cried Ede, “nonsense—­thirty shillings a day of course.  We sell work for gold, sir, and we give gold for it; look here!” and he suddenly bared a sturdy brown arm, and, smacking it, cried, “That is dirt where you come from, but it is gold here.”

“Ye’re a fine lad,” said the Scot, smoothly, “and ye’ve a boeny aerm,” added he, looking down at it.  “I’se no deny that.  I’m thinking—­I’ll just come—­and cuik till ye a wee—­for auld lang syne—­thretty schelln the day—­an’ ye’ll buy the flesh o’ me.  I’ll sell it a hantle cheaper than thir warldly-minded fleshers.”

Bref, he came to be shorn, and remained to fleece.

He went and told George what he had done.

“Hech! hech!” whined he, “thir’s a maist awfu’ come doon for the McLaughlans—–­but wha wadna’ stuip to lift gowd?”

He left his head man, a countryman of his own, in charge of the flocks, and tarried in the mine.  He gave great satisfaction, except that he used to make his masters wait for dinner while he pronounced a thundering long benediction; but his cookery compensated the delay.