He was roused by a voice at his shoulder.
“What for will they no let me come up to Crask ony mair?” the voice demanded in a sort of tinkler’s whine. Leithen turned and found the boy of the ginger-beer.
“Hullo! You oughtn’t to do that, my son. You’ll give people heart disease. What was it you asked?”
“What . . . for . . . will . . . they . . . no . . . let . . . me come . . . up to Crask . . . ony mair?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. What’s Crask?”
“Ye ken it fine. It’s the big hoose up the hill. I seen you come doon frae it yoursel’ this mornin’.”
Leithen was tempted to deny this allegation and assert his title of tourist, but something in the extreme intelligence of the boy’s face suggested that such a course might be dangerous. Instead he said, “Tell me your name, and what’s your busines
