Part 27 (1/2)

”That d.a.m.ned pudding-face is a Whig,” said he, ”and so, of course, he's a Justice. The Squire's a Whig, and he's a Justice. Here am I, well-reputed in the faculty, and my wife coming of the Parker Putwells, one of the rare old county stocks--none of your newfangled b.u.t.ton-men and turnip-growers--and I'm no Justice, because I'm a Church-and-King man of the old school.”

”They went out of fas.h.i.+on with flaxen bobs,” said I.

”Come on, my tousled macaroni!” said he. ”There's nothing the matter with the inside of your head at any rate, though the outside looks as if you'd been arguing with the parish bull.”

”This is a verra fine house,” said Maclachlan slowly and slily.

”A mere dog-kennel,” said the doctor, ”considering she's a Parker Putwell.”

”And I'm thinking,” said Maclachlan, very thoughtfully ”that there'll be some guid victuals in the pantry and, mayhap, a gay wheen bottles of right liquor in the cellar.”

”Oh aye!” said he, taken aback.

”Then I'm thinking we'll e'en have breakfast here and try their merits.

And if it's a guid ane, I'll see you a Justice, whatever that may be, when the King enjoys his own again. A Maclachlan has spoken it.”

The doctor went to an inner door and bawled, ”Euphemia,” and a discontented wisp of a woman answered his call.

”Madam and gentlemen, my wife, Mistress Snooks, born a Parker Putwell.

Mistress Snooks, like me, will bow to your will with pleasure, nor will you mislike her table, I a.s.sure you. Now, my buck, let's see to this crack in your head.”

He took me into his druggery, unwrapped the bandage, and examined my wound.

”So ho!” said he, ”a right good sock on the head. How did it happen?”

I told him.

”It's lucky for you, my buck,” he said, ”that you've got a baby's flesh and a tup's skull, and some one had the sense to wash the cut clean as soon as it was done.”

He set to work and made a good job of it, with a pledget of lint and strips of plaister, and meanwhile I speculated as to why, in all these bottles and jars and gallipots, neither nature nor art could contrive to store a drug magistral for the blow that had riven my heart asunder.

”That's better than two yards stripped off a wench's smock,” he said at last. ”And a d.a.m.nably fine smock too, you lucky rascal.”

He twittered a s.n.a.t.c.h of ribaldry that made my foot twitch in my boot.

Behind his back, I pocketed the priceless relic, dank and red with my unworthy blood, and followed him back to the company.

We made a longish stay, and fared well at his table. The doctor was a good enough fellow in himself, but his wife, a salt, domineering woman, lived in the light of the Parker Putwells, and he, poor devil, in the shadow they cast. He was playing a double game too, for whenever the red-elbowed serving-wench came into the room, he roared his dissent from our lawlessness, and drank to the King with his gla.s.s over the water-bottle as soon as she went out. Once when she brought us a rare dish of calvered roach and, with wenchlike curiosity, lingered to pick up a crumb or two of gossip, we had a snap of comedy, for, in his play-acting, he would take none till Maclachlan, to keep up the farce, thrust a pistol at his head and forced him. Whereupon the maid, in plucky fas.h.i.+on, threw a cottage loaf at Maclachlan and took him fairly in the chest. The doctor, to his credit, rose to protect her, but she braved it out. She would, she averred, lend the thingamyjig a better petticoat than the one he'd got on.

”If he mun wear 'em,” she added, ”he mought wear 'em long enough to be dacent.” The doctor bustled her out at last, palpitating but triumphant.

Maclachlan had sprung up like a wild cat when the missile hit him.

Luckily he was fl.u.s.tered by the bouncing of the loaf on the table and off again clean into Margaret's lap, or the ready trigger would surely have been drawn in earnest. Then Margaret promptly took the edge off his anger by saying with menacing sweetness, ”I'm sorry the fun has gone further than was desirable, but I will not have the girl blamed for what was in her a brave deed, nor suffer any unpleasantness here on account of it.

Pray be seated.”

This ended the matter, and Maclachlan, with a wry smile, settled down again to his fish.

”It was a verra guid thing after a' said,” he explained, ”that it wasna my mouth, for it was an unco' ding. I'm half hungry yet, and, to be sure, breakfast and broillerie gang ill together.”

It was well said, and Margaret rewarded him with a smile and engaged him in merry conversation. The Colonel, who had kept silent during the trouble, now plied the doctor with questions about the surrounding country.