When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it
was _written_ there."

"Then what the hell _did_ ye mean?" inquired the mystified
disciple--not altogether unreasonably.

Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten
out the conversation.

"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name
was just stampit on the bullet. Like--like--like an identity disc!" he
added brilliantly.

The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.

"I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae
imply is _this_, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet
in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil
your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! _That's_ what
I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?"

But it was the injured Buncle who replied--like a lightning-flash.

"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally.
"That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull.
There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that
finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with
a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!"

It was a knock-out blow.