Man, he's a dirty
brute o' a man, Black Jock!" and there was disgust in his voice. "Jist
look at Mag Robertson there, flittering aboot quite shameless, and
gecking and smirking at him, an' naebody daur say a word to her. She's a
fair scunner!"
"If she belonged to me, I'd let her ken a different way o't."
"Ay, Andra," was the reply. "But ye maun mind that Mag mak's mair money
than Sanny does. Jist look at her, the glaikit tinkler that she is.
Black Jock's no' ill to please when that pleases him."
Mag Robertson, the subject of their talk, was quite oblivious,
apparently, of the many remarks that were being passed about her, and
she continued to follow Walker, who as a committee member, was busily
arranging matters for the race.
"She's gie weel smeekit, Andra!" observed Matthew in a whisper, as Mag
passed close by. "Did ye fin the smell o" her breath?"
"Ay!" replied Andrew. "She can haud a guid lot before ye see it on her.
She's--" but a shout from the crowd cut his further revelations short.
"Here they come!" cried Matthew excitedly, as the tent opened, and young
Rundell came out with confident bearing, leading the other half-dozen
athletes to the starting place.
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