The next I knew I was sitting propped against the tent-pole with a cold
bandage round my forehead, and Ringan with a napkin bathing my face.
"Cheer up, man," he cried; "you've got off light, for there's no a
scratch on your lily-white cheek, and the blood-letting from the nose
will clear out the dregs of Moro's hocus."
I blinked a little, and tried to recall what had happened. All my
ill-humour had gone, and I was now in a hurry to set myself right with
my conscience. He heard my apology with an embarrassed face.
"Say no more, Andrew. I was as muckle to blame as you, and I've been
giving myself some ill names for that last trick. It was ower hard,
but, man, the temptation was sore."
He elbowed me to the open air.
"Now for the questions you've a right to ask. We of the Brethren have
not precisely a chief, as you call it, but there are not many of them
would gainsay my word. Why? you ask. Well, it's not for a modest man to
be sounding his own trumpet. Maybe it's because I'm a gentleman, and
there's that in good blood which awes the commonalty. Maybe it's
because I've no fish of my own to fry. I do not rob for greed, like
Calvert and Williams, or kill for lust, like the departed Cosh. To me
it's a game, which I play by honest rules.
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