172 A JACOBITE EXILE

will talk about him afterwards. Now come upstairs. Your
letter has thrown me quite into a flutter. Never say any-
thing in English before those Poles,” he said as he left the
shop; “the fellows pick up languages as easily as I can
drink whisky when I get the chance. One of them has
been with me two years, and it is quite likely he under-
stands at any rate something of what is said. Here we
are.”

He opened a door and ushered Charlie intoa large room
comfortably furnished. His wife, a boy eight years of age,
and a girl a year older, were seated at the table. “Janet,”
the merchant said, “this is Captain Carstairs, alias Sandy
Anderson, a connection of ours, though I cannot say for
certain of what degree.”

“What are you talking of, Allan?” she asked in surprise ;
for her husband, after opening and partly reading the letter,
had jumped up and run off without saying a word.

“What I say, wife. This gentleman is, for the present,
Sandy Anderson, who has come out to learn the business
and language with the intent of some day entering into
partnership with me; also, which is more to the point, he
is a friend of my good friend Jock Jamieson, whom you
remember well in the old days.”

“Tam very glad indeed to see any friend of Jock Jamie-
son,” Janet Ramsay said warmly, holding out her hand to
Charlie, “though I do not in the least understand what my
husband is talking about, or what your name really is.”

“My name is Carstairs, madam. I ama captain in the
Swedish service, and am here on a mission for King Charles.
Colonel Jamieson, for he is now colonel of the regiment to
which I belong—”

“What!” the merchant exclaimed; “do you mean to
say that our Jock Jamieson is a colonel? Well, well, who
would have thought he would have climbed the tree so
quickly?”