Max went to his place shrinkingly, for Bruce, the great deerhound, was following close behind him, apparently examining him thoughtfully.

"Lie down, Bruce!" said Kenneth, and the dog dropped into a couching att.i.tude. "You look fizzing, Max," he said, in a low voice, as his father walked to the window and peered out.

Max gave him a piteous look, and gladly seated himself, seeming glad of the shelter of the hanging tablecloth, for, after examining him wonderingly, Sneeshing suddenly set up his tail very stiffly and uttered a sharp bark, while Dirk shook his frill out about his neck and uttered a menacing growl, which to poor Max's ears sounded like, "You miserable impostor, get out of those things!"

Just then Grant entered with the portion of the breakfast kept back till Max came down, The Mackhai seated himself, and the breakfast began.

As at previous meals, the host was very much abstracted: when he was not partaking of his breakfast, he was reading his letters or referring to the newspaper, leaving the task of entertaining the guest to his son.

"How do you feel now?" said Kenneth.

"Not very comfortable," whispered Max. "May I ask Grant to have a good search made for my things?"

"Oh no, don't ask him now. It puts him out. You'll be all right, and forget all about them soon."

"I--I don't think I shall," said Max, as he made a very poor breakfast.

"Oh yes, you will. I say, if I were you, I'd write up to my tailor to send you down two rigs-out like that. You'll find 'em splendid for shooting and fishing."

Max shook his head.

"Never mind. Have some of this kipper, it's--"

"Ow!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Max, dropping his coffee-cup on the table, so that it upset, and the brown fluid began to spread, as the lad sprang back from the table.

"What's the matter?" cried The Mackhai.

"Nothing, sir;--I--that is--that dog--"

Kenneth was seized with a violent fit of laughing and choking, which necessitated his getting up from the table and being thumped on the back by Grant; while Dirk, who had been the cause of all the trouble, marched slowly out from under the table, and stood upon the hearthrug uttering a low growl, and looking from one to the other of the boys, as if he felt that they were insulting him.

"Look here, Kenneth, if you cannot behave yourself at table," cried The Mackhai angrily, "you had better have your meals by yourself."

"I--I--oh dear!--oh, oh, oh! I beg your pardon, father, I--oh, I say, Max, don't look like that, or you'll kill me!" cried Kenneth, laughing and choking more than ever.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Max piteously. "I'm afraid it was all my fault;" and he looked at the stained cloth.

"There is no need for any apology, Mr Blande. Here, Grant, lay a doubled napkin over this place, and bring another cup. Pray sit down, sir."

Max turned shrinkingly toward the table, but glanced nervously from one dog to the other, and just at that moment, Bruce, who was behind, smelt his legs.

"Oh!" cried Max, making a rush, as he felt the touch of the dog's cold nose.

"Here, Kenneth, I've said before that I will not have those dogs in the dining-room!" cried The Mackhai angrily. "Turn them out."

Kenneth hastily obeyed, the dogs marching out through the French window, and then sitting down outside and looking patiently in, as dogs gaze who are waiting for bones.

"What was the matter, Max?" asked Kenneth, as soon as they were re-seated, and the breakfast once more in progress.

"That dog took hold of my leg."

"What, Sneeshing?"

"No, no. The one you call Dirk."

"He must have thought it was a sheep's leg."

"Kenneth!"

"Yes, father?"

"Go on with your breakfast. I hope you are not hurt, Mr Blande?"

"No, sir, not hurt, but it felt very wet and uncomfortable."

"The dog's play," said The Mackhai quietly. "I don't think he would bite."

"No, sir, I hope not," faltered Max, as he tried to go on with his breakfast; "but it felt as if he was going to, and it was startling."

"Yes, of course!" said The Mackhai absently, as he took up his paper, and the breakfast went on to the end, but to Max it was anything but a pleasant meal.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MACRIMMON'S LAMENT.

"No, sir, I've asked everybody, and no one has seen them since Bridget put them to dry. She says they were in front of the fire when she went to bed."

This was Grant's reply to Max's earnest prayer that he would try and find his trousers.

"Do you think they could have been stolen?" said Max doubtingly.

"Stolen! My goodness, sir! do you think there is any one about this house who would steal young gentlemen's trousers?"

"Oh no, of course not," said Max; "but could you get a man to pick a lock?"

"Pick a pocket, sir!" cried Grant indignantly, for he had not fully caught Max's question.

"No, no--a lock. I lost the key of my small portmanteau as I came here, and I can't get at my clothes."

"No, sir, there is no one nearer than Stirling that we could get to do that."

"Oh, never mind, Max," cried Kenneth, coming in after leaving his visitor for some little time in the drawing-room; "the trousers'll turn up soon, and if they don't, you'll do as you are. He looks fizzing, don't he, Granty?"

"Yes, sir, that he do," replied the butler, compressing his lips into a thin line.

"Only his legs look just a little too white," continued Kenneth.