ith so much simplicity that it could not have been mistaken for rudeness.
"Keep it to yourself, man," was the laconic advice the Highlander tossed over his shoulder as he transferred his attention to his horses.
Mr. Clark bit his lip to hide a smile.
"What is your name, my lad?" he asked suddenly.
"Sandy McCulloch, sir," was the quiet answer.
Donald waited, listening eagerly to every turn of the conversation that followed, but to his astonishment neither his father nor Sandy McCulloch spoke one word regarding the mysterious telegram.
It was nightfall when the wagon that had brought them turned into a muddy drive and stopped before a bare looking house situated in a meadow, and surrounded by a number of vast barns and sheep-pens. Out of this house came a broad-shouldered, bronzed man who stood on the steps, waiting their approach. He wore trousers of sheepskin, a soiled flannel shirt, and round his neck--knotted in the back--was a red handkerchief