"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. ‘—and I love your raven hair, and your bright blue eyes, and your very kissable lips—’ suiting the action to the words ‘—and I love the crazy way you speak English, and the way you curse at me. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. They were filthy after the burial. Here we are. It’s not you—not a bit. “Will you come in, Sir John.
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