quickly, picking a
potato out of the basket at his feet, and throwing it with such good aim
that it struck the bailiff in the chest.

This was the signal for a general discharge, Max and Scoodrach hurling
potatoes with all their might at the attacking party, and with more or
less good aim.

"Oh, if they'd only come close in ready for the boiling lead!" cried
Kenneth.

"Here, Shon!" shouted Max, whose face was crimson with excitement; "more
potatoes--I mean cannon balls. Bring up a sack."

"It'll be the worse for you," shouted the bailiff. "Come on, my lads,
in with you!"

There was a rush made for the gateway, but a shower of vegetable bullets
came now from the whole force of defenders, Tavish throwing two at a
time, and Long Shon hitting every shot.

This checked the advance for a moment, and just then old Tonal'
reappeared at the front of the tower, with his hair streaming out like
the tail of a silvery comet. The old man's face was puffed out and red,
for now, in place of his claymore and dirk, he had his pipes in hand.

"Fecht, laddies, fecht!" he yelled; and, in spite of his being such an
anachronism, there was something grand now in the wild old figure, as he
stood there in full view, from crown to buckled shoon, claymore
sheathed, the jewels in his dirk sparkling, and the sun flashing from
his eyes as he yelled out, "Ta slogan of ta Mackhai! Mackhai!
Mackhai!"

"Oh, do hold me, Maxy, or I shall go overboard," cried Kenneth, as he
held his sides and roared with laughter, for the old retainer sent forth
a tremendous blast from his pipes, which came echoing back from the
walls within, as he marched up and down at the front of the crumbling
tower about eight steps each way, blowing with all his might, his
efforts being responded to by fresh cheers from the little garrison.

"Hurrah! Hech! Hurrah!" cried Tavish, who was infected by the
excitement and the national music. "Hey, but we will fecht, Maister
Ken! we'll die for ye. Oh, it's crand--it's crand!"

"Fecht, then, all o' ye," cried Kenneth, taking up the broad dialect;
and then roaring to those in the yard, "You girls, bring up everything
you can. Never mind what it is--anything we can throw."

A shrill scream of delight came from within, and, as the dogs barked
furiously, the old piper still stamped up and down and played the war
march of the Clan Mackhai.

"Don't stand glowering at that owd gowk," cried the bailiff. "Come on!"

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