whereupon Mackinnon
commenced a eulogy on the clans in general, and his own sept in
particular.

"Ay, that must have been a pleasant fellow," said Cutts, in response to a
legend of Mackinnon's, concerning a remote progenitor known by the
_sobriquet_ of Angus with the bloody whiskers; "a little too ready with
his knife perhaps, but a lively companion, I daresay, over a joint of his
neighbour's beef. 'Pon my soul, it's quite delightful to hear you talk,
Mackinnon; as good as reading one of Burns's novels. Just ring the bell,
will you, for another jug; and then tell me the story of your great
ancestor who killed the Earl of Northumberland."

This adroit stroke of the Saxon, whose thirst in reality was for liquor,
not for lore, proved perfectly irresistible. Mackinnon went on lying like
a Sennachie, and by the time the second jug was emptied, both gentlemen
were just tottering on the verge of inebriation. The sound of the music in
the apartment above first recalled Mackinnon to the sense of his duties.

"I say though, Cutts, I must be off now. I'll bring the girl down to
supper, and Freddy will take her off my hands at the door; isn't that the
agreement? Faith, though, I'll have a waltz with her first. I hope there's
no smell of port-wine about me. It won't do for a ball-room."

"Try a glass of brandy," said Cutts, and he administered the potation.
"Now you be off, and I'll keep a sharp look-out below."

The Saxon's ideas of a look-out were rather original. In the first place
he paid a visit to the bar, where the niece of the landlady--a perfect
little Hebe--presided, and varied the charms of a flirtation with a
modicum of brandy and water. He then returned to the coffee-room, in which
were two gentlemen who had seceded for a moment from the ball. They were
both very accurately dressed, proud of French polish, white cravats, and
lemon-coloured gloves, and altogether seemed to consider themselves as the
finished D'Orsays, of Shrewsbury. A few supercilious looks, which they
vouchsafed upon Cutts, who, to say the truth, was no beauty in his
shooting-jacket, roused the Saxon lion. Some complimentary expressions
passed between the parties, which ended in an offer from Cutts to fight
both gentlemen for a five-pound note; or, if they had not so much ready
cash, to accommodate them with a thrashing on credit. This proposal was
magnanimously declined by the strangers, who edged gradually towards the
door; however, nothing, but