Mrs.Morran's voice was heard in shrill protest.
"Ye ill laddie! Eh--ye--ill--laddie! (crescendo) Makin' a hash o' my back door wi' your dirty feet! What are ye slinkin' roond here for, when I tell't ye this mornin' that I wad sell ye nae mair scones till ye paid for the last lot?
Ye're a wheen thievin' hungry callants, and if there were a polisman in the place I'd gie ye in chairge....

What's that ye say?
Ye're no' wantin' meat?
Ye want to speak to the gentlemen that's bidin' here?
Ye ken the auld ane, says you?
I believe it's a muckle lee, but there's the gentlemen to answer ye theirsels." Mrs.Morran, brandishing a dishclout dramatically, flung open the door, and with a vigorous push propelled into the kitchen a singular figure.
It was a stunted boy, who from his face might have been fifteen years old, but had the stature of a child of twelve.

He had a thatch of fiery red hair above a pale freckled countenance.

His nose was snub, his eyes a sulky grey-green, and his wide mouth disclosed large and damaged teeth.

But remarkable as was his visage, his clothing was still stranger.