"Callm, are ye aff your bloody heid? Dafter than thon bloody, big, glen brush?"

Possibly. But Callm still stopped midway across the moonlit yard to ponder the advantages of punching Wee Murdie's jaw. True. If he sent him sprawling into the snow, the silence would certainly be bliss. But he hesitated when the man was taller than him. A few inches. Even so. Besides he never punched people for pointing out the truth.

"I said if, Murdie. Are you going deaf ...