The Reverend snorted. ‘You can’t see whether the fellow’s happy or not.’
‘Ye wouldnae be happy if ye were bein’ left owernight there. Ah wonder if he haes any whisky? Ah’ll ask Brendon tae take a look.’
‘You really think your son’s going to stop and check whether the mutton-head has a bottle of whisky stashed away?’ Reverend Shackleford scoffed, ‘Is there a signal forget me a wee dram?’
Dougal scowled and put the glasses back to his eyes. ‘There be nae sign o’ the cart, and the guard be heidin tae the wee bothy.’
‘Only one?’ the Reverend asked, itching to snatch the glasses back.
‘Aye. Th’others hae gaed.’
‘Right then, we can signal Malcolm,’ the Reverend declared in satisfaction. ‘What did you do with the flint and tender?’
‘Ah thought ye had it?’
‘It should be in your pack.’
‘Nae, it be in yers, ye eejit.’
The Reverend narrowed his eyes before demanding, ‘Who are you calling an idiot, you… you… buffle-headed saucebox.’
‘Ye wispy haired, toom heidit, Sassanach. Gie me yer bag.’ Dougal made a grab for the Reverend’s satchel, snatching it out of the clergyman’s hands and tipping everything onto the ground.
With an indignant, ‘How dare you,’ Reverend Shackleford seized the Scotsman’s bag and emptied its contents directly on the top of the pile.
They both fell silent, staring at the objects littering the ground. There appeared to be everythingbuta flint and tinder.
‘Thunder an’ turf,’ the Reverend muttered at length, ‘they must have fallen into the cart. We’ll have to row over.’
‘There be nae time,’ Dougal groaned, ‘an we need tae be here tae watch in case any o’ the bastarts come back. Ah cannae row there an’ back that quick. Can ye?’
The Reverend shook his head despondently. ‘You’ll be deuced well carrying me off. Do you know how to light a fire without flint and tinder?’
Dougal shook his head. ‘Dae ye?’
‘Tare an’ hounds, we’re in the suds.’
‘Tatties be ower the side an’ nae mistak.’
Both men sat down on the ground, staring at nothing for the next few minutes. Then abruptly the Reverend squared his shoulders. This lily-livered chucklehead wasn’t him - it was just old Nick trying to throw a rub in his way. Augustus Shacklefordalwayscame up with a plan.
He looked again at the items scattered on the ground in front of him. Sorting through, he found a stick of charcoal. ‘Are you wearing drawers under your skirt?’ he asked his dejected companion.
‘Wha’ dae ye mean am ah wearin’… o’ course ah be wearin’ drawers. Did ye not notice it be bloody drafty in th’Highlands? An’ it be a kilt, nae a skirt.’
‘Kilt, skirt – they all look the deuced same to me.’
Dougal drew in his breath at such sacrilege. In fact he was teetering on the verge of ordering the Sassenach bampot to name his seconds, when the Reverend’s next words took the wind out of his sails.
‘Right then, take ‘em off.’
Dougal blinked. ‘Ah willnae. What dae ye want ‘em fer?’
‘I’m going to write on them.’ The clergyman held up the piece of charcoal triumphantly.
‘Yer bum’s oot the windae if yer thinkin’ ah’m gaunnae get ma tackle oot jus’ fer ye. An anyway, the colour o’ ma drawers, ye’ll nae see the markins.’ He held up his kilt to reveal a pair of drawers the colour of mud. The Reverend stared in disbelief. He was no dandy, but still, he made sure to change his smalls every birthday.
‘Have you never washed them?’ he asked, unable to hide his distaste.
