slimmer,â
said Mr. Maconochie.
âAnd fewer whiskers,â
Tommy said. He dodged quickly, grinning, as she splashed him.
Mr. Maconochie said,
âIf the weather does hold â dâyou remember I mentioned camping?â
âYes!â
said Jessup promptly.
âReal camping?â
said Emily.
âWith tents and backpacks and all?â
Tommy shook his head.
âMr. Mac is a softie camper,â
he said.
âThe gear all gets carried in the car, and the carâs right there where you pitch your tent.â
Mr. Maconochie said with dignity,
âI am an aging man. And who was it chose to sleep
inside
the car, last time?â
âOne night in a tent with the dreaded great-nephews was enough,â
Tommy said.
âA frog in my sleeping bag and stones in my sneakers. Theyâre worse than the Boggart.â
He started the outboard motor.
âPull up the anchor, Jessup.â
Emily settled herself contentedly in the bow.
âCanwe really go camping? Where shall we go?â
âAlmost anywhere,â
said Mr. Maconochie.
âI just want to show you the Highlands. Thereâs more to Western Scotland than Castle Keep.â
Jessup dropped the anchor clanking at their feet, and coiled wet line neatly beside it.
âCould we go to Loch Ness? Is that far?â
âCertainly we could,â
said Mr. Maconochie.
âNot far at all.â
Tommy made a snorting sound, audible even over the chugging of the motor.
âLoch Ness! Youâre surely not thinking of the Monster?â
Jessup frowned.
âWhy not?â
âThatâs all tourist rubbish,â
Tommy said coldly. He nudged the throttle higher, and Jessup sat down suddenly as the boat began to pitch.
âBut there was this cool guy on the plane,â
Jessup said, and all the way home he recited, with much incomprehensible scientific detail, the story of Harold Pindle and his robot submarine expedition. Tommy grunted, unimpressed, and slowed the boat gently down as they came close to Castle Keepâs rocky landing.
âThatâs a classic sound you made,â
Jessup said.
âYouâve done it twice now. Itâs the Scornful Scottish Snort.â
Tommyâs mouth twitched.
âWhen weâre by Loch Ness youâll hear another one called the Canny Caledonian Clink. Itâs the sound of the local Scots collecting money from gullible American monster-hunters.â
âI quite liked Harold,â
Emily said mildly.
âAnd heâs Canadian, thank you. Heâs a professor at the Universityof British Columbia, and he and Jess talked computers halfway across the Atlantic.â
âI bet you didnât tell him about the Boggart,â
Tommy said.
âOf course not,â
said Jessup.
âHeâs a scientist. They only believe in things they can see and check and measure. Thatâs what he wants to do to the plesiosaur. If it is a plesiosaur.â
Mr. Maconochie stepped out of the dinghy with the bow line as Tommy nudged them up to the rock jetty of the castle.
âItâs a beautiful loch anyway. Letâs dig out the camping gear and you can choose your tents.â
So, up in one of the small dark upper rooms of the castle that were used only for storage, they burrowed in numbers of large, exciting boxes ordered by Mr. Maconochie by mail from specialized camping stores. There were tents and sleeping bags, anoraks and boots, packets of improbable freeze-dried food, even shiny blankets of the kind used by astronauts.
âHeâs like a little kid with those camping catalogs,â
Tommy told them, pulling out a tent frame so light he could hold it with one finger.
âMy mum says we should go through his mail and hide them from him. He buys something every month. Thereâs enough stuff up here for an Everest expedition.â
âItâs the modern materials,â
Mr. Maconochie said unrepentantly.
âTheyâre so amazing, I can never