Ah, Mrs. Miggins. Am I to gather from your look of pie-eyed exhaustion and the globules of porridge hanging off the walls that my cousin MacAdder has presented his credentials?
Ooo, yes indeed, sir. You just missed him.
I hope he's been practicing with his claymore.
Oh, I should say so! I'm as weary as a dog with no legs that's just climbed Ben Nevis.
A claymore is a sword, Mrs. Miggins.
See this intricate wood carving of the infant Samuel at prayer? He whittled that with the tip of his mighty weapon with his eyes closed.
[drily] Yes, exquisite.
He bade me bite down on a plank of wood. There was a whirlwind of steel and within a minute three men lay dead and I had a lovely new set of gnashers.
Really. Just tell him to meet me here at 5 o'clock to discuss an extremely cunning plan. If all goes well, by tomorrow the clan of MacAdder will be marching back on the high road back to glory.
Ooh, lovely. I'll do you a nice packed lunch.
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