You don't want to be drowned, do you ?" The cat struggled and scratched.

"Then go--to your doom!" He clasped his hands behind him in a Napoleonic manner and stood gloomily watching the unembarrassed progress of the cat across the carpet, while Peter (a fox-terrier, and the wickedest dog in Priorsford) crushed against his legs to show how faithful he was compared to any kind of cat.
"Haven't you finished eating yet, Jock ?" Jean asked.

"Here is Mrs.
M'Cosh for the tea-things." The only servant The Rigs possessed was a middle-aged woman, the widow of one Andrew M'Cosh, a Clyde riveter, who had drifted from her native city of Glasgow to Priorsford.

She had a sweet, worn face, and a neat cap with a black velvet bow in front.
Jock rose from the table reluctantly, and was at once hailed by the Mhor and invited on to the raft.
Jock hesitated, but he was the soul of good nature.

"Well, only for five minutes, remember.