The sight sent sportsman-fire through the old gentleman's entire frame. He sprang, he almost tumbled up, but before he could fire, a jealous boulder intervened. Rushing up a few yards, he was just in time to see the animal bound over a cliff and disappear.

Depressed beyond measure, he returned to his post and resumed the rapid head-motion which he had foolishly discontinued. This was fortunate, for it enabled him to see in time the stag and hind which Jackman had sent bounding towards him. Another moment, and the affrighted creatures were within range. MacRummle sprang up, put the repeater to his shoulder, and then commenced a fusillade that baffles description. Bang, bang, bang, went the repeater; bang, bang, double-bang, and banging everywhere went the startled echoes of the mountain. Never since it sprang from the volcanic forces of nature had the Eagle Cliff sent forth such a spout of rattling reverberation. The old man took no aim whatever. He merely went through the operations of load and fire with amazing rapidity. Each crack delivered into the arms of echo was multiplied a hundredfold. Showers of bullets seemed to hail around the astounded quarry. Smoke, as of a battle, enshrouded the sportsman. The rifle became almost too hot to hold, and when at last it ceased to respond to the drain upon its bankrupt magazine, the stag and hind lay dead upon the track, and MacRummle lay exhausted with excitement and exertion upon the heather!

This unwonted fusillade took the various parties higher up the hill by surprise. To Ivor, indeed, it was quite a new experience, and he regarded it with a smile of grim contempt.

"There iss noise enough—what-e-ver!" remarked Skipper McPherson, who sat beside the keeper with a double-barrelled gun charged with buckshot, which he had in readiness.

"Look! look!" exclaimed Ivor, pointing to another part of the pass, "your friend McGregor has got a fright!"

"Ay, that's true. Shames would be troubled in his mind, I think."

There was indeed some reason to suppose so. The worthy seaman, having got tired of waiting, had, against Ivor's advice, wandered a few yards along the pass, where, seeing something farther on that aroused his curiosity, he laid down the single-barrelled fowling-piece with which he had been provided, and began to clamber. Just as the repeater opened fire, two hinds, which had got ahead of the others, ran through the pass by different tracks. One of these McGregor saw before it came up, and he rushed wildly back for his gun. It was this act that his comrades rightly attributed to mental perturbation.

"Look out!" whispered the keeper.

As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor's arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.

"Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry," remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.

"Quick, man, fire!" cried Ivor, testily.

The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.

When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.

"Eh! man, are 'ee shot?" cried the captain, anxiously.

"Oo, ay, but I'm none the worse o' it! I had a presentiment o' somethin' o' this sort, an' loaded his gun wi' small shot," replied the keeper.

Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that "treemendious" repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret's face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!

It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.

"An' sure it's no wonder at all," was Pat Quin's remark; "for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an' me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy."

"Oh, do tell us about that," cried Junkie and his brothers, turning eagerly to Jackman.

"So I will, my boys; but not now. It will take too long. Some other time, in the house, perhaps, when a bad day comes."

"No, now, now!" cried Junkie.

Seeing that most of those present had lighted their pipes, and that the laird seemed to wish it, Jackman washed down his lunch with a glass of sparkling water, cleared his throat, and began.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

JACKMAN'S WONDERFUL ELEPHANT STORY.

"Once upon a time," said Jackman, glancing at Junkie and Robin Tips, who sat before him open-mouthed and open-eyed, as if ready to swallow anything...

"Yes," murmured Junkie, nodding, "that's the right way to begin."

"But you must not interrupt, Junkie."

"No, I won't do it again; but first, tell me, is it true?"

"Yes, my boy; it is absolutely true in all its main points," replied Jackman.

"Well, as I said, once upon a time, not very long ago, I was sent up to the North-west provinces of India, to a place near the base of the Himalaya mountain-range. The country was swarming with elephants at that time. You see, previous to that, the elephants had been hunted and killed to such an extent that the Government had been obliged to pass an Elephant Preservation Act for their protection, and the Act worked so well that the elephants multiplied very fast. They roamed at will through the forests, and frequently, leaving these, made raids upon the cultivated lands, to the great damage of property and danger of human life from the 'rogues,' as old, solitary elephants which have been driven from the herds, are called. These 'rogues' are extremely ill-natured and dangerous, so it was found necessary to take steps to kill some of them, and thin the herds by capturing some of the females, which might be tamed and made useful.

"For this purpose of hunting and catching elephants a hunt upon a truly magnificent scale was instituted. Now, as it is very difficult to kill such huge creatures, and still more difficult to catch them, men are obliged to call to their aid tame elephants, which are trained for the purpose of what is called Khedda hunting. But I don't mean to tell you either about the killing or catching just now. I shall rather relate an extraordinary and thrilling incident that occurred before the hunt had properly begun.

"Great men from all parts of the country assembled at this hunt, some of them bringing troops of tame elephants and followers with them. There were governors and rajahs, and private secretaries, with some of their wives, military officers, forest officers, commissioners, collectors, superintendents, magistrates, surgeons, medical officers, and even clergymen, besides a host of smaller fry and servants. It was a regular army! The Maharajah of Bulrampore sent sixty-five catching elephants, and five koonkies or fighting elephants, among which was a famous warrior named Chand Moorut. Along with these came a body of men trained to that special work. A good contingent also came from Rampore. The Rajah of Khyrigarh came in person with thirteen elephants and a noted fighting animal, named Berchir Bahadur; other elephants were collected from the rajahs and native gentlemen around. Among the koonkies, or gladiators, were two tremendous fellows, both as to colossal size and courage, named respectively Raj Mungul and Isri Pershad.

"But far before them all in towering height and stupendous weight and unconquerable courage, as well as warlike tendency, was the mighty Chand Moorut, whom I first mentioned. This grand, slow-moving, sedate hero of a hundred fights, was a sort of elephantine bull-dog; a concentrated earthquake; an animal thunder-bolt; a suppressed volcano. Nothing in the forests had yet been found which could stand before his onset. And when we saw him stalk solemnly into camp with his mahowt, or guide, looking like a small monkey on his great neck, and remembered his fame as a fighter and his eager thirst at all times for battle, we felt that the keystone had been put to the arch of our arrangements.

"This great mixed multitude was put under the direction of a Conservator of Forests, a man celebrated for his exploits and daring adventures in the field, and it was as a friend of his that I joined the hunt with my man, Pat Quin there."

"Troth, sor, an' av it wasn't for Chand Moorut (blissin's on his great sowl, av he has wan, an' on his body av he hasn't) your man Pat Quin would have been left there as flat as a pancake. Excuse me, sor, for spakin', but me feelin's overcomed me."

"No doubt, Quin, you had a narrow escape; I'll come to that soon. Well, the spot at last chosen for pitching the camp was a splendid one, facing northward, where we had an extensive view of the great forests that stretched to the base of the irregular and rugged Sawalick hills. Behind these rose the mighty Himalayas themselves, their grand peaks seeming to push up into the very heavens, where the sun shone with dazzling brilliancy on their everlasting snows. The camp covered an immense piece of ground, which was partly open and partly dotted with clumps of trees. It was so large that the tents, etcetera, were arranged in streets, and our Director pitched his tent in the very centre of it, with all the tame elephants and their attendants around him.

"You may easily fancy that it was a noisy camp, with so many hundreds of men and animals around, full of excitement, more or less, about the coming fight; for we had a number of men, called trackers, out in the woods, who had brought in news that a herd of wild elephants had just been discovered in the Saharanpur and Dun forests, on the banks of the Ganges.

"The glens in these forests were known to be well suited for hunting purposes, so our hopes and expectations were raised to a high pitch. Towards evening we had got pretty well settled down, when a rumour got about the camp that one of the Khedda elephants had killed a man, and that it was highly probable he would run amuck to the great danger of every one. It happened thus:—

"A big tusker, named Mowla Buksh, was being taken by his mahowt to drink and bathe, according to custom, when it was observed that the elephant seemed to be out of temper. Just then one of the fodder-cutters chanced to pass by.

"'Keep out of his way,' cried the mahowt, in a warning tone. 'There's something wrong with him to-day. I won't bathe him, I think.'

"'Oh! he knows me well, and won't harm me,' returned the cutter.

"The words were scarcely out of the man's mouth, when the brute rushed at him, knocked him down, gored him with his tusks, and kicked him after the fashion of enraged elephants. Of course the poor man was instantly killed. When this deed was done, Mowlah Buksh seemed to feel that, having lost his character, he might as well go on in his course of mischief. He became wild with fury, and kept throwing his head back in a vain endeavour to seize his mahowt with his trunk and kill him also. In this effort he failed. The mahowt, though old, was active and strong. He managed to hold on and sit so far back on the elephant's hind quarters as to be just out of reach. Luckily the brute did not think of shaking him off.

"Had he attempted that, he would soon have succeeded. The poor man would have fallen to the ground and been killed. Finding that he could not accomplish his purpose, the infuriated animal rushed towards the camp, where the khedda or hunting elephants were, and where, as I have said, our Director had pitched his tent. My own tent was close beside his.

"The first I heard of what was going on was from Quin, who came running into my tent, where I was sitting quietly at the time, cleaning my rifle. Quin's eyes were starting out of his head, and there was, I assure you, nothing of the pleasant smile that rests on his face at this moment!

"'Och, sor!' gasped Quin, 'Bowla Muk—no—Mowla Buksh—has gone mad entoirely!'

"I jumped up quickly, you may believe, for I didn't often see that look on Quin's face, and when I did, I knew well that something very serious was in the wind.

"'Where away is he?' I asked.

"'Sorrow wan o' me knows, sor,' said Quin.

"Rushing out with no very fixed purpose in view, I soon found that the shouting in the camp was a sufficient guide to the spot where the mischief was going on. In a few minutes I came on a cordon of musketeers who had been hastily drawn up, so as to prevent Mowla Buksh from getting at the other elephants, for if he had succeeded in doing so, he would certainly have gone knocking about the smaller ones, perhaps maiming them, and killing every man who might chance to come in his path. On the other hand, if the musketeers managed to turn him, there was the danger of his making for the main camp, and killing every one he could lay hold of in that direction.

"Of course the thought of turning out the big fighting elephants to master him occurred to every one; but even here there would be risk, for these gladiators would not rest content without knocking Mowla Buksh off his legs, in which case the mahowt would assuredly be killed. Besides, our Director chanced to be in the forest at the time, and no one else seemed ready to take the responsibility of ordering them out.

"When I came up to the musketeers, I saw the elephant rushing wildly about, trying to find a way through them, with the old mahowt sticking to his back like a burr.

"The Bulrampore men shouted to him to try and get the elephant to go to his standing-place, saying that if he could persuade him to sit down they would tie his legs up. After the brute had exhausted itself somewhat by rushing about, the mahowt did succeed in recovering control so far as to persuade him to move to his standing-place, which was not far distant, and to our great relief he sat down in the usual way. The Bulrampore men were as good as their word. Smart hands every one, they ran up with ropes and commenced tying up his hind legs. Being experts at the work, they manipulated the thick ropes with amazing rapidity, and had the panting animal almost secured when he partially recovered, and began to understand what was being done to him. He started up indignantly, just before the knots were properly fastened, and struck out right and left with his trunk, scattering the men in all directions.

"Although the ropes had not been quite secured, they were sufficiently fast to impede his movements. He therefore took to venting his rage on the surrounding trees, and, really, until that day, I had not realised the prodigious strength of this king of beasts. He knocked and smashed them down right and left with the greatest possible ease, although, I do assure you, some of them were fully eight inches in diameter. All this time the old mahowt was clinging to his back, not daring to slip off.

"The men now began to lay large rope-nooses about here and there, in the hope that he would accidentally put a foot into one of them. But Mowla Buksh was much too knowing to be caught in this way. Whenever he came across one of these nooses, he took it up with his trunk and tossed it contemptuously aside. Gradually he worked his way up to a cluster of trees, near the tent in which our Director's wife had been seated all the time—with what feelings I will not pretend to guess. In this cluster he spent two hours, smashing down trees all the time, and occasionally, by way of variety, trying to lay hold of the poor mahowt, who was gradually becoming exhausted through terror and the exertion of holding on.

"Strange to say, now and then the man appeared to regain control over the beast, though only for a few seconds. During one of these intervals he even succeeded in making Mowla Buksh partially sit down.

"'Och! now or niver! Off wid ye!' yelled a splitting voice close to my ear! I need not tell you whose voice that was, or that its owner was skipping about like a gorilla, almost as mad as the elephant!"

"Ah! sor," interrupted Quin, "don't ye remimber how yourself was—but I'll have mercy on ye! Go on, sor."

"Well, I confess," resumed Jackman, "that I was a little excited. However, the Bulrampore men echoed Quin's advice in eagerly expressed Hindustani. The mahowt took it, slipped to the ground, and ran for his life! Fortunately the excited Mowla either did not perceive or did not care. He rose up and recommenced his work of destruction.

"All this time he had been freeing himself from the ropes, with which he was imperfectly bound. At last he detached them entirely, and began to make furious rushes in every direction.

"At that critical moment our Director arrived on the scene. Seeing how matters stood he at once gave orders to have the fighting elephants brought to the front, as the only chance that remained to bring the mischief to an end. The orders were gladly and promptly obeyed.

"Before they arrived, however, Mowla Buksh, in one of his rushes, came straight to where Quin and I were standing—"

"Skippin', sor, ye said."

"Well, skipping. But we stopped skipping at once, and took to running as hard as we could. We both ran through some soft reedy ground, where the brute overtook us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him knock Quin into the rushes and set his enormous foot on him—"

"Oh! was he killed?" exclaimed Junkie with a look of consternation at the now heroic Quin!

There was a general burst of laughter, in which Junkie joined, for he saw the absurdity of the question, which sudden anxiety had forced from him.

"But why wasn't you killed?" he asked almost indignantly.

"Whisht! honey, an' ye'll hear, av ye'll howld your tongue."

"You must know," continued Jackman, "that the place he had tumbled into was wet, soft ground, and Quin has a sharp way of looking after his life! Although half stunned he rolled to one side, so that only the side of the great foot came down on his shoulder and thrust him deep into the mud. I stopped at once with a feeling of horror, but without the slightest conception of what I meant to do, and the horror was deepened as I saw the monster turn with the evident intention of completing his work.

"At that terrible moment the colossal forms of Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and the mighty Chand Moorut appeared, coming towards us. Mowla Buksh did not carry out his deadly intentions. There was 'method in his madness.' Seeing the koonkies approach, he retreated at once to the shelter of the cluster of trees, and waited.

"I rushed forward, expecting to find my man dead and flattened, but he rose slowly as I came up, and with an indescribable expression of countenance said, 'Arrah! then, but he was heavy!'"

"An' that must have been true—what-ever" said McGregor, unable to restrain a comment at this point.

"What you remark is true likewise, Shames," said the skipper.

"Go on—quick!" cried Junkie, eagerly.

"Well, our Director gave orders, to take Raj Mungul to the south side of the clump of trees, Isri Pershad to the west, and Chand Moorut to the east. It was impossible to let the last go in, though he was impatient to do so, for by that time it was getting dark, and his mahowt would have probably been swept off his back by the branches; and the risk of such a gladiator being let loose without a controlling hand was not to be thought of for a moment.

"The difficulty was got over by means of a ruse. Two men were sent to the north side of the clump with orders to talk and attract the attention of Mowla. The plan succeeded. The moment the still fuming brute heard their voices, he went at them furiously! Now was the chance for the heroic Chand Moorut; and that warrior was never known to let an opportunity slip. No British bull-dog ever gave or accepted a challenge with more hilarious alacrity than he. As soon as Mowla came out of the trees, Chand Moorut went at him with a rush that seemed incredible in such a mountain of usually slow and dignified flesh. But darkness, coupled perhaps with haste, interfered. He missed his mark, and Mowla Buksh, turning round, dashed straight at the tent, in front of which our Director and a friend were standing. The friend, who was a V.C. as well as a cool and intrepid sportsman, directed the light of a lantern full on the monster's face till it was close upon him, thus enabling the Director to plant a bullet in his head. Whether the shot gave him a headache or not, I cannot tell. The only certain effect it had was to turn the animal aside, and cause it to rush off in the direction of the main camp, closely followed by Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul. Chand Moorut was held back in reserve. Happily Raj Mungul managed to outstrip and turn the runaway, and as Mowla Buksh came back, Chand Moorut got another chance at him. Need I say that he took advantage of it? Charging in like a live locomotive, he sent the mad creature flying—as if it had been a mere kitten—head over heels into a small hollow!"

"Well done! Capital!" shouted Junkie, at this point unable to restrain himself, as, with glittering eyes, he glanced round the circle of listeners.

A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to "go on."

"There is not much to go on with now, my boy," continued the narrator; "for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.

"There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.

"Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?"

"Yes, but go on wi' the hunt," said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.

"No, no, boys; you've had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us."

"Well, not much," replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. "There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don't expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we'll be going."

"Shames," said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, "I wonder if a good thrashin' like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?"

"Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don't think it would," replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.

"You are right, Shames," said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. "It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient."

"Then what for are ye always poonishin' me, an' tellin' me to be coot, when ye say it won't make me coot?" asked Donald.

"Because, Tonal', it iss my duty to tell ye to be coot, although I cannot make ye coot, ye rascal!" answered the fisherman, sternly; "but I can make ye obey me by poonishin' you—ay, an' I wull do it too."

Donald knew too well from experience that it was not safe to attempt arguing the question, but he gave a peculiarly defiant shake of his ragged head, which said as plainly as words that the time was coming when "poonishment" would cease to secure even obedience—at least in his case!

"You are right, Ian," said Jackman, turning round, for he had overheard the conversation. "Punishment compelled Mowla Buksh to walk to his standing-place and submit to be tied up, for he did not dare to disobey with Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul standing guard over him, but it certainly did not make him good. I went, with many others, to see him the next morning. On the way over to the elephant camp, I saw the huge trees which he had smashed down in his rage lying about in all directions, and on reaching his standing-place, found him looking decidedly vicious and bad-tempered. It was quite evident that any one venturing within reach of his trunk would receive harsh treatment and no mercy. A small red spot in his great forehead showed that our Director's aim had been a fairly good one, though it had not hit the deadly spot in the centre."

"But I want to know," said Junkie, who kept close to Jackman's side, thirsting for every word that fell from his lips, "why did the bullet not go in and kill Bowly Muksh?"

"Because the head of Mowla Buksh was too thick," said Jackman, laughing. "You see, to be a thick-head is not always a disadvantage."

"There, you ought to take comfort from that, Junkie," remarked his brother Archie, with that fine spirit of tenderness which is so often observable in brothers.

"Ha! ha! ha!" yelled Eddie, with that delicacy of feeling which is equally common.

"Hold your tongues!" growled Junkie—the more classic "shut up" not having at that time found its way to the Western Isles.

"You must know, Junkie, that all parts of an elephant's head are not of equal thickness," said Jackman in that kindly confidential tone which tends so powerfully to soothe a ruffled spirit. "The only point in an elephant's forehead that can be pierced by a rifle ball is exactly in the centre. It is about the size of a saucer, and if you miss that, you might as well fire against the Eagle Cliff itself, for the ball would only stick in the skull."

With this explanation Junkie was fain to rest content at the time, for the party had reached a part of the hill where it became necessary to station the guns at their several posts. In regard to this drive, we have only to say that it ended in nothing except heavy rain and a severe draft on the patience of the sportsmen, without any reward, save that which may be derived from mild martyrdom.

Now, when the events which we have described were taking place on the mountains of Loch Lossie, a very different scene was occurring in the nursery of Kinlossie House. In that interesting apartment, which was one of the chief country residences of the spirits Row and Smash, little Flora was seated all alone in the afternoon of that day. Her seat was a low chair, before her was a low table to match. On the table sat her favourite doll, Blackie, to whom she was administering counsel of the gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother's admonitions to herself had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be "dood," when her mother entered hastily.

"Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not very well, I hear."

Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the keeper's mother—and love needs no persuasion.

As we have said, Mrs Donaldson's little cottage stood behind that of her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on it.

"What caused the bruise, Maggie?" asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic tone,—"Weel, mem, it was na Ivor's fau't, but the day before yesterday he cam in—fou—ye ken he's fond o' his glass, mem, an' he was swingin' aboot his airms, poor falla, an' withoot the least intention, his haund cam doon wi' sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na aboot it, so ye'll no speak o't to him—or to the laird."

"You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the time."

"Thank'ee, mem, that's just it. An' he's the best sons to me—whan he's sober."

Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her sympathetic child returned to the house.



CHAPTER NINE.

A QUIET DAY WITH A STIRRING TERMINATION.

What fisher does not know the charm, the calm delight, of a quiet day by the river-side, after, it may be, months of too much contact with society? On such an occasion a congenial comrade is an advantage, but unless the comrade be congenial, one is better alone.

This may sound selfish to some ears, but is it really so? When a man has all but immolated himself for ten or eleven months, it may be, on the altar of business, art, and social duty, is a tremendous thirst for Nature and solitude altogether selfish? We think not. And evidently MacRummle thought not, as he wandered one soft, delightful morning, rod in hand, down to the river-side.

The river-side! There is something restfully suggestive in the very words. The quiet pools, the gurgling deeps, the rushing rapids, the rippling shallows, the little cascades—what ardent hopes, what wild suggestions, what grand possibilities these have for the young; what gentle excitations, what pleasant, even though sad, memories for the old!

Of course the non-fisher knows nothing of all this. His terrestrial joys are limited, poor thing! The painter, indeed, has some part in the matter—as regards his own line, so to speak—and when he goes on what is vulgarly termed his own hook. We have profound sympathy with the painter. But for the poor fellow who neither fishes nor paints, alas! To be sure he may botanise. Strange to say, we had almost forgotten that! and also geologise; but our concern at present is with fishers, or, rather, with that fishing enthusiast, MacRummle.

The sunshine of his face was second only to that of Nature. His visage beamed with satisfaction; his eyes gleamed with hope, as he sat down on the bank near to his first pool, and began to select flies.

We have probably given the impression that MacRummle was alone, but this is not strictly correct. In his own estimation he was, indeed, in absolute solitude, and, so far, his felicity was unbroken; but his steps had been dogged that morning, and the dogger was Junkie.

That eccentric youngster possessed a mind which it is not easy to analyse or describe. One strong element in it, however, was curiosity. Another was ambition. The blending of these two qualities produced wonder in Junkie—wonder that he, though as ardent a sportsman as MacRummle, should go forth frequently to fish and catch little or nothing, while the old gentleman went out and was wont to return with baskets full to overflowing. There must be a secret of some sort. He did not like to ask what that secret was, so he made up his mind to follow the old man and watch him—not of course with the slightest intention of doing anything sly or wrong, but secretly, because he was well aware that MacRummle did not like to be distracted by company— especially his company!

Following, then, at a respectful distance, and relying for success very much on the fisher's partial blindness and deafness, Junkie went out to have a day of it. He even went so far, in the matter of forethought, as to provide himself with a massive slice of bread and cheese to sustain him while carrying on his investigations.

Before he had got far from the house, however, he encountered Donald of the ragged head, who had hung about the place in hopes of another deer-drive, and whom he styled "Tonal'," in semi-sarcastic imitation of old Ian. Him he at once took into his confidence.

"I'll co wuth ye," said Donald.

"Come along, then. But mind, if you make a noise, or show yourself; if you so much as cough or sneeze, I'll punch your head an' tumble you into the river."

"Fery coot," said Donald. And upon this clear understanding they advanced.

The other members of the company at the house, meanwhile, had scattered in various directions to fish, shoot, paint or botanise, according to fancy.

We may explain here that there were several trouting streams in the vicinity of the house, besides the "river" at the head of the loch. Thus it was that MacRummle had a stream all to himself.

At first the fisher tried fly, to which he was partial, but success did not attend his efforts. The water was not in the best condition for fly, being rather swollen by recent rains. Perseverance, however, was one of MacRummle's strong qualities. He was not to be easily beaten.

There was a certain big boulder about the size of a dog-cart near the mouth of the stream, which narrowed its bed considerably, and thus produced a formation of rock below water favourable to the shelter of fish. It also sent an oily ripple over the surface of the water, which was favourable to the operations of the fisher. The old gentleman seldom failed to raise or hook a good sea-trout there, and always made his first cast with eager expectation. But the fish were either obdurate or blind that morning. They could not or they would not see. With a slight, but by no means desponding, sigh, the old man changed his cast and tried again. He knew every stone and ledge of the pool, and cast again and again with consummate skill and unusual care. Still, without result.

"That's odd," he muttered, for, being naturally a sociable man, he found talking to himself an immense relief. "Try once more, just at the tail o' yon swirl, Dick, my boy."

His Christian name was Richard. No one would have presumed to call him Dick but himself.

No result following this appeal to the tail of the swirl, he sat down on the bank and once more changed his hook. The nature of change might have been heard by the insects among the heather close by, if they were listening, for Donald whispered to his companion,—"He's coin' to try pait!"

"Didn't I bid ye hau'd your tongue?"

"Ay."

"Do't then."

MacRummle dropped a worm gently into the head of the pool, and let it go with the current. Instantly the line straightened, the rod bent, the reel spun, and from the other side of the pool there leaped a lovely bar of silver, which fell back to its native element with a considerable splash.

"A two-pounder!" gasped Donald, unable to restrain his excitable spirit, as he half rose.

Junkie had him by the throat in a moment, and crammed his ragged head down among the heather.

"Tonal'!" he whispered remonstratively.

"I forgot," whispered Donald, when the strong little hands relaxed. "I'll not do't again."

"Ye better no'," returned Junkie, with a shake of his fist that required no explanation.

By this time the fish had darted like a lightning flash twice up stream, once down, three times across, and twice into the air. At the same time the fisher had hurried up and down the bank, had tripped over two stumps and a root, had dropped his wideawake, and had very nearly gone head foremost into the pool; for his tackle was fine and his fish large. The fisher-boy gasped.

"Tonal'," said Junkie, in very low tones, "if ye don't behave better, I'll send ye away."

"It iss not easy, but I'll try," said he.

Donald could say no more. The best of men or boys could do no more than try. We may as well say here at once, however, that his efforts at self-control were crowned with success. He proved himself to be a great man in embryo by ruling his own spirit that day.

In a few minutes the trout was landed by means of a miniature gaff, which the fisher carried in his basket, for the purpose of securing fish that were too heavy to be pulled out by the line. It was afterwards found to be a two-and-a-half pounder, which, being an unusually good fish for that stream, was the occasion of much rejoicing on the part of the old gentleman, as he stood wiping his forehead and commenting on it.

"Capital! Not had such a fellow as that for more than a week. There's more where that came from; but you must give the pool a rest, Dick. Try the run higher up."

In obedience to his own orders, MacRummle went up to a part of the stream where a high cliff on one side and a steepish bank on the other caused it to flow in a deep channel, not much more than a couple of yards wide. At the head of the run was a ledge where fish were invariably captured. Towards this spot the old man hurried eagerly.

The two boys lay still in the heather, allowed him to pass, and then softly followed, bending low, and keeping as much as possible behind bushes and in hollows, until they were again close upon him. Ensconcing themselves in a convenient mass of heather, they raised their heads and saw the fisher stepping carefully from rock to rock, as he approached the run.

Rounded boulders, large or small, are never safe to walk on, even for the young and active. MacRummle found it so. His foot slipped, and he sat down, with undignified haste, in a small pool of water.

Down went the boys' heads, that they might explode their laughter as softly as possible among the roots of the heather.

"Wass it not funny?" whispered Donald.

"I hope he's not hurt," replied Junkie, raising his head cautiously.

He saw that MacRummle had risen, and, with a rueful expression of face, was making insane and futile efforts to look at himself behind. A beaming smile overspread the boy's face as he glanced at his companion, for he knew well that the old gentleman cared little or nothing for water. And this was obviously the case, for, after squeezing as much water out of his nether garments as chose to come, he proceeded to the head of the runs and resumed fishing.

"I'm beginnin' to see through't," murmured Junkie, after watching for some time. "See! he has hooked another. Ye see, Tonal', it must be lettin' the hook drift away down under the ledges that does it. Look! He's got 'im!"

"I'm thinking ye are right, Junkie. An' the creat thing to know iss where the ledges lie. He keeps well back from the watter also. There maun be somethin' in that, what-e-ver. Ye wull be tryin' it yoursel' the morn, maype."

To this Junkie vouchsafed no reply, for the fisher, having secured his fish, was proceeding further up stream. When he was sufficiently far in advance, the boys rose to their feet, and again followed him.

Thus the trio occupied themselves all the forenoon—MacRummle gradually filling his basket with fine sea-trout, Junkie storing his inquisitive mind with piscatorial knowledge and "dodges," and Donald enjoying himself in the mere act of wallowing about in heather and sunshine.

About noon MacRummle suddenly ceased to gaze intently on the water, and placed his hand upon his waistcoat.

"Time, Dick?" he murmured, pulling out his watch. "I knew it. Commend me to nature. It's the best time-keeper, after all—needs no regulating."

He was wrong, as was frequently the case, but it mattered little, for there was no one to contradict him.

"Let me see," he muttered, taking off his basket, and drawing a newspaper parcel from the pocket of his coat—in which operation he was induced by memory to make a last futile attempt to see himself behind—"what have they put up for me?"

The parcel, when opened, disclosed a tempting pile of meat sandwiches. The old gentleman spread them out on a flattish boulder, which served as an admirable table.

Having leaned his rod against a tree, he emptied the basket on a grassy spot, and arranged the silver bars in a row. Then he sat down on his basket beside the table, and gave himself up to food and contemplation.

"A goodly row," he muttered, as well as the ham sandwich would let him. "Not a bad beginning; and such a splendid dish. There's comfort in that, for I hate useless work of any kind. A sort of an illustration, this, of the fitness of things!"

Apparently the peculiar unfitness of simultaneous mastication and speech struck him, for he paused a few moments, then continued,—"Yes, fitness. Supplies for the table absolutely needed. Healthy exercise a consequence. Result, felicity!"

The supplies checking speech again, MacRummle looked around him, with benignant good-will to man and beast expressed on his countenance.

Craning their necks over a bank, and seeing the old gentleman thus pleasantly engaged, the two boys sank into the heather, and disappeared from view as completely as did "Clan Alpine's warriors true," after they had been shown to Fitz James by Roderick Dhu. Like two sparrows in a purple nest they proceeded to enjoy themselves.

"Now, Tonal', we will grub," said Junkie. "Why, what's the matter with you?" he asked, on observing a sudden fall in his companion's countenance.

"The matter?" repeated the boy. "It iss the crub that's the matter, for I hev not a crumb with me."

"Now, isn't that awful?" said Junkie, with a hypocritically woeful look. "We will just have to starve. But there's plenty of water," he added, in a consoling tone. "Here, Tonal', take this leather cup an' fill it. Ye can git down to the river by the back o' the bluff without bein' noticed. See that ye make no noise, now. Mind what I said to ye."

While Donald went at a slow, sad pace to fetch water, Junkie spread his handkerchief on the ground, and on this tablecloth laid out the following articles, which he took from a small bag that he had carried, slung on his shoulder,—a very large piece of loaf bread, a thick slice of cheese, two hard biscuits, an apple, a bit of liquorice, a mass of home-made toffee, inseparably attached to a dirty bit of newspaper, three peppermint lozenges, and a gully knife with a broken blade.

When Donald returned and beheld this feast, he opened his eyes wide. Then, opening his mouth, he was on the point of giving vent to a cheer, when Junkie stopped him with a glance and an ominous shake of the fist.

It is to this day an undecided question which of those feasters enjoyed himself most.

"I always bring with me more than I can eat, Tonal', so you're welcome to the half. 'Fair play,' as daddy says, although he sometimes keeps the fairest play to himself;" with which dutiful remark the urchin proceeded to divide the viands very justly.

It did not take long to consume the whole. But MacRummle was quicker even than they, possibly because he had enticing work still before him. The consequence was, that he had resumed his rod unnoticed by the boys, and in the process of his amusement, had reached that part of the bank on the top of which they lay concealed. Their devotion to lunch had prevented his approach being perceived, and the first intimation they had of his near presence was the clatter of pebbles as he made a false step, and the swish of his flies above their heads as he made a cast.

The boys gazed at each other for one moment in silence, then hastily stuffed the remnant of their feast into their pockets.

Suddenly the glengarry bonnet of Junkie leaped mysteriously off his head, and dropped on the heather behind him.

"Hanked again!" growled MacRummle from the river-bed below.

Every fisher knows the difficulty of casting a long line with a steep bank behind him. Once already the old gentleman had hanked on the bank a little lower down, but so slightly that a twitch brought the flies away. Now, however, the hank was too complicated to give way to a twitch, for the glengarry held hard on to the heather. In desperate haste, Junkie, bending low, tried to extract the hook. It need scarcely be said that a hook refuses to be extracted in haste. Before he could free it, the voice of MacRummle was heard in sighs and gasps of mild exasperation as he scrambled up the bank to disentangle his line. There was no time for consideration. Junkie dropped his cap, and, rolling behind a mass of rock, squeezed himself into a crevice which was pretty well covered with pendent bracken. Donald vanished in a somewhat similar fashion, and both, remaining perfectly still, listened with palpitating hearts to MacRummle's approach.

"Well, well!" exclaimed the fisher in surprise; "it's not every day I hook a fish like this. A glengarry! And Junkie's glengarry! The small rascal! Crumbs, too! ha! that accounts for it. He must have been having his lunch here yesterday, and was so taken up with victuals that he forgot his cap when he went away. Foolish boy! It is like his carelessness; but he's not a bad little fellow, for all that."

He chuckled audibly at this point. Junkie did the same inaudibly as he watched his old friend carefully disengage the hook; but the expression of his face changed a little when he saw his cap consigned to the fisher's pocket, as he turned and descended to the stream. Having given the fisher sufficient time to get away from the spot, Junkie emerged from his hiding-place.

"Tonal'," he said, in a low voice, looking round, "ye may come oot noo, man. He's safe away."

The ragged head, in a broad grin, emerged from a clump of bracken.

"It wass awful amusin', Junkie, wass it not?"

"Yes, Tonal', it was; but it won't be very amusin' for me to go all the rest of the day bareheaded."

Donald sympathised with his friend on this point, and assured him that he would have divided his cap with him, as Junkie had divided his lunch, but for the fact that he never wore a cap at all, and the ragged hair would neither divide nor come off. After this they resumed their work of dogging the fisher's steps.

It would require a volume to relate all that was said and done on that lovely afternoon, if all were faithfully detailed; but our space and the reader's patience render it advisable to touch only on two points of interest.

As the day advanced the heat became overpowering, and, to escape from the glare of the sun for a little, the fisher took shelter under some very tall bracken on the bank near a deep pool. In order to secure a slight feeling of pleasurable expectation while resting, he put on a bait-cast, dropped the worm into the deepest part of the pool, propped up his rod with several stones, and then lay down to watch. The turf happened to be soft and level. As a natural consequence the tired man fell sound asleep.

"What's to be done noo, Junkie?"

"I don't know, Tonal'."

To make matters more exasperating, at that moment the rod began to bend and the reel to spin jerkily.

"A fush!" exclaimed Donald.

"Looks like it," returned his friend drily.

"I better gee a yell an' wauken him," suggested Donald.

"Ye'd better no'," said Junkie, shaking his fist.

"Yonder iss the end o' yer bonnet stickin' oot o' his pooch, what-e-ver," said Donald.

"You'd better lie low an' keep still," said Junkie; and, without further explanation of his intentions, he went softly down the bank and crept towards the sleeper, taking advantage of every stone and root and bush as he went along. Really, for a first attempt, it was worthy of the child of a Pawnee brave.

MacRummle was a heavy sleeper, so Junkie had no difficulty in recovering his cap. Putting it on, he returned the way he had come.

"That wass cliver, man," said the admiring Donald, when his friend rejoined him.

Junkie accepted the compliment with a dignified smile, and then sat down to wait; but it was a severe trial of patience to both of them, for the old man slept steadily on, and even snored. He seemed, in short, to have fairly gone to bed for the night.

"What say ye to bomb stanes at 'um?" suggested Donald.

"An' kill 'im, maybe," returned Junkie, with sarcasm in his eye.

"Heave divits at 'um, then."

"Ay; that's better."

Accordingly, the two urchins tore up a mass of turf which was much too heavy to heave.

"Let's row'd," suggested the active-minded Donald.

As this also met the approval of Junkie, they carried the "divit," or mass of turf, to the bank just above the sleeper, and, taking a careful aim, let it go. The bank was not regular. A lump diverted the divit from its course, and it plunged into the pool, to the obvious discomposure of the fish, which was still at intervals tugging at the line. Another divit was tried, but with similar result. A third clod went still further astray. The bombardment then became exciting, as every kind of effort does when one begins to realise the beneficial effect of practice.

"I can see how it is," whispered Junkie, as he carefully "laid" the next gun. "If we keep more to the right, it'll hit that lump o' grass, glance into the hollow, and—"

He stopped abruptly, and both boys stood in crab-like attitudes of expectation, ready to fly, for the divit took the exact course thus indicated, and bounding down the bank, hit MacRummle fair on his broad back.

The guilty ones dived like rabbits into the bracken.

"Bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, jumping up and shaking the dry earth off. "This is most remarkable. I do believe I've been asleep. But why the bank should take to crumbling down upon me is more than I can understand. Hallo! A fish! You don't deserve such luck, Dick, my boy."

Winding in the line in a way which proved that the divit had done him no harm, he gave utterance to an exclamation of huge disgust as he drew an eel to the bank, with the line entangled hopelessly about its shiny body. This was too much for MacRummle. Unable to face the misery of disentanglement, he cut the line, despatched the eel, attached a new hook, and continued his occupation.

At the head of the pool in question the bank was so precipitous and high that the boys could see only the top of the rod swinging gracefully to and fro as the patient man pursued his sport. Suddenly the top of the rod described a wild figure in the air and disappeared. At the same moment a heavy plunge was heard.

"Hech! he's tum'led in the pool," gasped Donald.

They rushed to the overhanging edge of the cliff and looked down. Sure enough MacRummle was in the water. They expected to see him swim, for Junkie knew he was an expert swimmer; but the poor man was floating quietly down with the current, his head under water.

"Banged his heed, what-e-ver!" cried Donald, jumping up and bounding down the bank to the lower and shallow end of the pool. Quick though he was, Junkie outran him; but the unfortunate MacRummle was unintentionally quicker than either, for they found him stranded when they got there.

Running into the water, they seized him by the hair and the collar of his coat, and dragged him into the shallow part easily enough, but they had not strength to haul him ashore.

"Fetch a divit, Tonal'—a big one, an' I'll keep up his head."

One of the masses of recent artillery was fetched, and the fisher's head was gently pillowed on it, so as to be well out of the water.

"There's no cut that I can see," said Junkie, inspecting the head critically; "he's only stunned, I think. Noo, Tonal', cut away to the hoose. Run as ye never ran before and tell them. I'll stop beside him for fear his heed slips in again."

Donald went off like a shot. Junkie went a few steps with him, intending to fetch another divit. Looking back, he saw what made him sink into the heather, and give a low whistle. Donald heard it, stopped, and also hid himself, for MacRummle was seen trying to rise. He succeeded, and staggered to dry land, when, sitting down on a stone, he felt himself all over with an anxious expression. Then he felt a lump on the back of his head, and smiled intelligently. After that he squeezed as much water out of his garments as he could, quietly took down his rod, ascertained that the fish in his basket were all right, then looked with some perplexity at the big divit lying in the shallow close to where he stood, and finally, with a highly contented expression of countenance, wended his way homeward.

The two boys gave him time to get well out of sight in advance, and then followed his example, commenting sagely as they went, on the desirability of possessing pluck in old age, and on the value of the various lessons they had learned that day.



CHAPTER TEN.

A WILDISH CHAPTER.

It was the habit of our three friends—Bob Mabberly, John Barret, and Giles Jackman—during their residence at Kinlossie, to take a stroll together every morning before breakfast by the margin of the sea, for they were fond of each other's company, and Mabberly, as a yachtsman, had acquired the habit of early rising. He had also learned to appreciate the early morning hours as being those which present Nature in her sweetest, as well as her freshest, aspect—when everything seems, more than at other periods of the day, to be under the direct influence of a benignant Creator.

It was also the habit of Captain McPherson and his man, James McGregor, to indulge daily in similar exercise at about the same hour, but, owing probably to their lives having been spent chiefly on the sea, they were wont to ramble up a neighbouring glen in preference to sauntering on the shore.

One bright calm morning, however, when the sky was all blue and the loch was like a mirror, the two seamen took it into their heads to desert the glen and ramble along the shore. Thus it came to pass that, on returning homeward, they encountered our three friends.

"It iss fery strange that we should foregather this mornin', Mr Mabberly," said the skipper, after greeting the young men; "for Shames an' me was jist speakin' aboot ye. We will be thinkin' that it iss foolishness for hum an' me to be stoppin' here wastin' our time when we ought to be at oor work."

"Nonsense, Captain," said Mabberly; "surely you don't think that taking a holiday in a pleasant place like this is wasting time. Besides, I don't consider you free from your engagement to me. You were hired for the trip, and that includes land as well as water, so I won't give you your discharge till you have had a long rest, and recruited yourselves after the shock to your nervous systems occasioned by the wreck and the swim to shore!"

A grim smile played on the skipper's iron features when reference was made to his nerves, and a flicker of some sort illumined the wooden visage of McGregor.

"You are fery kind, sir," returned the skipper; "but we don't like to be receivin' pay for doin' nothin'. You see, neither Shames nor me cares much for fushin' in the burns, or goin' after the deer, an' there's no chance o' raisin' the yat from the pottom o' the sea, so, if you hev no objection, sir, we will be goin' by the steamer that arrives to-morrow. I thought I would speak to you to-day, for we will hev to start early in the mornin', before you're up, for it iss a long way we'll hev to go. Iss it not so, Shames?"

"Oo, ay," replied the seaman, with more than ever of the nasal twang; "it iss a coot many miles to where the poat comes in—so the poy Tonal' wass tellin' me, what-e-ver."

Mabberly tried to persuade the men to remain a little longer, but they were obdurate, so he let them go, knowing well that his father, who was a wealthy merchant and shipowner, would see to the interests of the men who had suffered in his son's service.

As they retraced their steps to the house the skipper gave Giles Jackman some significant glances, which induced him to fall behind the others.

"You want to speak with me privately, I think, skipper?"

"Yes, sir, I do," replied the seaman, with some embarrassment. "But it iss not fery easy nor pleesant to do so. A man does not like to speak of another man's failin's, you see, but as I am goin' away I'm obleeged to do it. You will hev noticed, sir, that Ivor Tonalson iss raither fond of his tram?"

"I'm afraid that I have observed that—poor fellow."

"He is a goot man, sir, is Tonalson—a fery goot man—when he iss sober, but he hes got no power to resist the tram. An' whiles he goes on the spree, an' then he gits wild wi' D.T. you know, sir. Noo, ever since we cam' here, Ivor an' me hes been great friends, an' it hes been heavy on my mind to see him like that, for he's a fine man, a superior person, is Ivor, if he would only let alone the whusky. So I hev spoken to him wance or twice—serious like, you know. At first he was not pleased, but the last time I spoke, he took it kindly, an' said he would think aboot what I had been sayin'. Noo, it's heavy on me the thoucht o' goin' away an' leavin' him in that state, so I thoucht that maybe ye would tak the metter up, sir, an' see what ye can do wi' him. Git him, if ye can, to become a total abstainer, nothin' less than that wull do wi' a man in that condeetion."

Jackman was greatly surprised, not only at the tenor of the skipper's remarks, but at the evidently deep feeling with which he spoke, for up to that time the reticence and quiet coolness of the man had inclined him to think that his mind and feelings were in harmony with his rugged and sluggish exterior. It was, therefore, with something of warmth that he replied,—"I shall be only too happy to do as you wish, Captain; all the more that I have had some serious thoughts and feelings in that direction. Indeed, I have made up my mind, as it happens, to speak to Ivor on that very subject, not knowing that you were already in the field. I am particularly sorry for his poor old mother, who has suffered a great deal, both mentally and physically, on his account."

"Ay, that's the warst o' it," said the skipper. "It wass the sicht o' the poor wumin ailin' in body an' broken heartit that first set me at Ivor."

"But how comes it, Captain, that you plead so earnestly for total abstinence?" asked Jackman with a smile. "Have I not heard you defend the idea of moderate drinking, although you consented to sail in a teetotal yacht?"

"Mr Jackman," said the skipper, with almost stern solemnity, "it iss all fery weel for men to speak aboot moderate drinkin', when their feelin's iss easy an' their intellec's iss confused wi' theories an' fancies, but men will change their tune when it iss brought home to themselves. Let a man only see his brither or his mither, or his faither, on the high road to destruction wi' drink, an' he'll change his opeenion aboot moderate drinkin'—at least for hard drinkers—ay, an' he'll change his practice too, unless he iss ower auld, or his stamick, like Timothy's, canna git on withoot it. An' that minds me that I would tak it kind if ye would write an' tell me how he gets on, for I hev promised to become a total abstainer if he wull."

That very afternoon, while out shooting on the hills, Jackman opened the campaign by making some delicate approaches to the keeper on the subject, in a general and indirect way, but with what success he could not tell, for Ivor was respectfully reserved.

About the same time John Barret went off alone for a saunter in one of the nearest and most picturesque of the neighbouring glens. He had declined to accompany his comrades that day, for reasons best known to himself. After writing a few letters, to keep up appearances, and to prevent his being regarded as a mere idler, he went off, as we have said, to saunter in the glen.

He had not sauntered far when he came upon a sight which is calculated, whenever seen, to arouse sentiments of interest in the most callous beholder—a young lady painting! It would be wrong to say he was surprised, but he was decidedly pleased, to judge from the expression of his handsome face. He knew who the lady was, for by that time he had studied the face and figure of Milly Moss until they had been indelibly photographed on his—well, on the sensitive-plate of his soul, wherever that lay.

Milly had quite recovered from her accident by that time and had resumed her favourite pursuits.

"I'm very glad to have caught you at work at last, Miss Moss," he said, on coming up to the picturesque spot on which her easel was erected. "I wish much to receive that lesson which you so kindly promised to give me."

"I thought it was just the other way. Did you not say that you would teach me some of those perplexing rules of perspective which my book lays down so elaborately—and, to me, so incomprehensibly?"

"I did, but did not you promise to show me how to manipulate oils—in regard to which I know absolutely nothing? And as practice is of greater importance than theory, you must be the teacher and I the pupil."

Upon this point they carried on a discussion until Milly, declaring she was wasting her time and losing the effects of light and shade, went seriously to work on the canvas before her. Barret, whose natural colour was somewhat heightened, stood at a respectful distance, looking on.

"You are quite sure, I hope," said the youth, "that it does not disturb you to be overlooked? You know I would not presume to do so if you had not promised to permit me. My great desire, for many a day, has been to observe the process of painting in oils by one who understands it."

How he reconciled this statement with the fact that he was not looking at the picture at all, but at the little white hand that was deftly applying the brush, and the beautiful little head that was moving itself so gracefully about while contemplating the work, is more than we can explain.

Soon the painter became still more deeply absorbed in her work, and the pupil more deeply still in the painter. It was a magnificent sweep of landscape that lay before them—a glen glowing with purple and green, alive with flickering sunlight and shadow, with richest browns and reds and coolest greys in the foreground; precipices, crags, verdant slopes of bracken, pine and birch woods hanging on the hillsides, in the middle distance, and blue mountains mingling with orange skies in the background, with MacRummle's favourite stream appearing here and there like a silver thread, running through it all. But Barret saw nothing of it. He only saw a pretty hand, a blushing cheek and sunny hair!

The picture was not bad. There was a good deal of crude colour in the foreground, no doubt, without much indication of form; and there was also some wonderfully vivid green and purple, with impossible forms and amazing perspective—both linear and aerial—in places, and Turneresque confusion of yellow in the extreme distance. But Barret did not note that—though by means of some occult powers of comprehension he commented on it freely! He saw nothing but Milly Moss.

It was a glorious chance. He resolved to make the most of it.

"I had no idea that painting in oils was such a fascinating occupation," he remarked, without feeling quite sure of what he said.

"I delight in it," returned the painter, slowly, as she touched in a distant sheep, which—measured by the rules of perspective, and regard being had to surrounding objects—might have stood for an average cathedral.

Milly did not paint as freely as usual that afternoon. There was something queer, she said, about the brushes. "I can't get it to look right," she said at last, wiping out an object for the third time and trying again.

"No doubt," murmured the youth, "a cottage like that must be difficult to—"

"Cottage!" exclaimed Milly, laughing outright; "it is not a cottage at all; it's a cow! Oh! Mr Barret, that is a very poor compliment to my work and to your own powers of discernment."

"Nay, Miss Moss," retorted the pupil, in some confusion, "but you have wiped it out twice, confessing, as you did so, that you could not paint it! Besides, my remark referred to the cottage which I thought you were going to paint—not to your unsuccessful representations of the cow."

The poor youth felt that his explanation was so lame that he was somewhat relieved when the current of their thoughts was diverted by a loud shouting in the road farther down the glen. A shade of annoyance, however, rested for a moment on the face of his companion, for she recognised the voices, and knew well that the quiet tete-a-tete with her willing and intelligent pupil must now be interrupted.

"My cousins," she remarked, putting a touch on the cow that stamped that animal a lusus naturae for all time coming.

Another whoop told that the cousins were drawing near. In a few minutes they appeared in the path emerging from a clump of hazel bushes.

"They are evidently bent on a photographic expedition," remarked Barret, as the boys approached, Junkie waving his hat with hilarious good-will when he discovered the painters.

"And Flo is with them," said Milly, "from which I conclude that they are having what Junkie calls a day of it; for whenever they are allowed to take Flo, they go in for a high holiday, carrying provisions with them, so as to be able to stay out from morning till night."

The appearance of the young revellers fully bore out Milly's statement, for they were all more or less burdened with the means or signs of enjoyment. Archie carried his box of dry plates in his left hand, and his camera and stand over his right shoulder; Eddie bore a colour-box and sketching-book; Junkie wielded a small fishing-rod, and had a fishing-basket on his back; and Flo was encircled with daisy chains and crowned with laurel and heather, besides which, each of the boys had a small bag of provisions slung on his shoulder.

"Hooray! hooray! Out for the day!"

sang, or rather yelled, Junkie, as he approached.

"Ramble and roam— Never go home!"

added Archie, setting down his camera, and beginning to arrange it.

"All of us must Eat till we bust!

"Junkie teached me zat," said innocent Flo, with a look of grave surprise at the peals of laughter which her couplet drew from her brothers.

"Yes, that's what we're goin' to do," said Junkie; "we've had lunch at the foot of Eagle Glen, and noo we are going up to Glen Orrack to dine, and fish, an' paint, an' botanise. After that we'll cross over the Swan's Neck, an' finish off the bustin' business with supper on the sea-shore. Lots of grub left yet, you see."

He swung round his little wallet as he spoke, and held it up to view.

"Would you like some, Cousin Milly?" asked Eddie, opening his bag. "All sorts here. Bread, cheese, ginger snaps, biscuits, jam—Oh! I say, the jam-pot's broken! Whatever shall we do?"

He dipped his fingers into his wallet as he spoke, and brought them out magenta!

Their hilarity was dissipated suddenly, and grave looks were bestowed on Eddie's digits, until Flo's little voice arose like a strain of sweet music to dissipate the clouds.

"Oh! never mind," she said; "I's got anuzzer pot in my bag."

This had been forgotten. The fact was verified by swift examination, and felicity was restored.

"What are you going to photograph?" asked Milly, seeing that Archie was busy making arrangements.

"You, Cousin Milly. You've no notion what a splendid couple you and Mr Barret look—stuck up so picturesquely on that little mound, with its rich foreground of bracken, and the grey rock beside you, and the peep through the bushes, with Big Ben for a background; and the easel, too—so suggestive! There, now, I'm ready. By the way, I might take you as a pair of lovers!"

Poor Milly became scarlet, and suddenly devoted herself to the lusus naturae! Barret took refuge in a loud laugh, and then said:

"Really, one would suppose that you were a professional, Archie; you order your sitters about with such self-satisfied presumption."

"Yes, they always do that," said Milly, recovering herself, and looking calmly up from the cow—which now resembled a megatherium—"but you must remember, Cousin Archie, that I am a painter, and therefore understand about attitudes, and all that, much better than a mere photographer. So, if I condescend to sit, you must take your orders from me!"

"Fire away then with your orders," cried the impatient amateur.

"See, sir, I will sit thus—as if painting," said Milly, who was desperately anxious to have it over, lest Archie should make some awkward proposition. "Mr Barret will stand behind me, looking earnestly at the picture—"

"Admiringly," interposed Barret.

"Not so—earnestly, as if getting a lesson," said Milly, with a teacher's severity; "and Flo will sit thus, at my feet, taking care (hold it, dear,) of my palette."

"More likely to make a mess of it," said Junkie.

"Now, are you ready? Steady! Don't budge a finger," cried Archie, removing the little leather cap.

In her uncertainty as to which of her fingers she was not to budge, Flo nervously moved them all.

"You're movin', Flo!" whispered Junkie.

"No, I'm not," said Flo, looking round indignantly.

"There, I knew you couldn't hold your tongue, Junkie," cried the photographer, hastily replacing the cap. "However, I think I had it done before she moved."

"And look—you've got the nigger in!" cried Junkie, snatching up the black doll, which had been lying unobserved on its owner's knee all the time.

"Never mind, that'll do no harm. Now, then, soldiers, form up, an' quick march," said Archie, closing up his apparatus. "We have got plenty of work before us, and no time to waste."

Obedient to this rather inaccurately given word of command, Archie's troops fell into line, and, with a whooping farewell, continued their march up the glen.

During the remainder of that beautiful afternoon, the artist and pupil continued at their "fascinating" work. Shall we take advantage of our knowledge to lift the curtain, and tell in detail how Milly introduced a few more megatheriums into her painting, and violated nearly all the rules of perspective, to say nothing of colour and chiaro-oscuro? Shall we reveal the multitude of absurd remarks made by the pupil, in his wild attempts at criticism of an art, about which he knew next to nothing? No; it would be unwarrantable—base! Merely remarking that painter and pupil were exceedingly happy, and that they made no advance whatever in the art of painting, we turn to another scene in the neighbourhood of Kinlossie House.

It was a wide grass-field from which the haycocks had recently been removed, leaving it bare and uninteresting. Nevertheless, there were two points of interest in that field which merit special attention. One was a small black bull, with magnificent horns, the shaggiest of coats, and the wickedest of eyes. The other was our friend MacRummle, taking a short cut through the field, with a basket on his back, a rod in one hand, and an umbrella in the other.

We may at once account for the strange presence of the latter article, by explaining that, on the day before—which was rainy—the laird, had with an umbrella, accompanied his friend to his first pool in the river, at which point their roads diverged; that he had stayed to see MacRummle make his first two or three casts, during which time the sky cleared, inducing the laird to close his umbrella, and lean it against the bank, after which he went away and forgot it. Returning home the next day our angler found and took charge of it.

That he had been successful that day was made plain, not only by the extra stoop forward, which was rendered necessary by the weight of his basket, and the beaming satisfaction on his face, but by the protruding tail of a grilse which was too large to find room for the whole of itself, inside.

"You're a lucky man to-day, Dick," murmured the enthusiastic angler to himself, as he jogged across the field.

Had he known what was in store for him, however, he would have arrived at a very different estimate of his fortunes!

The field, as we have said, was a large one. MacRummle had reached the centre of it when the black bull, standing beside the wall at its most distant corner, seemed to feel resentment at this trespass on its domain.

It suddenly bellowed in that low thunderous tone which is so awfully suggestive of conscious power. MacRummle stopped short. He was naturally a brave man, nevertheless his heart gave his ribs an unwonted thump when he observed the bull in the distance glaring at him. He looked round in alarm. Nothing but an unbroken flat for a hundred yards lay around him in all directions, unrelieved by bush, rock, or tree, and bounded by a five-foot wall, with only one gate, near to where the bull stood pawing the earth and apparently working itself into a rage.

"Now, Dick," murmured the old gentleman, seriously, "it's do or die with you if that brute charges, for your legs are not much better than pipe-stems, and your wind is—Eh! he comes!"

Turning sharply, he caused the pipe-stems to wag with amazing velocity— too fast, indeed, for his toe, catching on something, sent him violently to the ground, and the basket flew over his head with such force that the strap gave way. He sprang up instantly, still unconsciously holding on to rod and umbrella.

Meanwhile, the bull, having made up its mind, came charging down the field with its eyes flashing and its tail on high.

MacRummle looked back. He saw that the case was hopeless. He was already exhausted and gasping. A young man could scarcely have reached the wall in time. Suddenly he came to a ditch, one of those narrow open drains with which inhabitants of wet countries are familiar. The sight of it shot a blaze of hope through his despair! He stopped at once, dropped his rod, and, putting up his umbrella, laid it on the ground. It was a large cotton one of the Gamp description. Under the shelter of it he stepped quietly into the ditch, which was not much more than knee-deep, with very little water in it.

Placing the umbrella in such a position that it came between himself and the bull, he laid himself flat down in the drain. The opening was far too narrow to admit his broad shoulders, except when turned sidewise. The same treatment was not applicable to other parts of his person, but, by dint of squeezing and collapsing, he got down, nestled under the bank, and lay still.

On came the bull till it reached the basket, which, with a deft toss, it hurled into the air and sent the silvery treasure flying. A moment more and it went head foremost into the umbrella. Whether it was surprised at finding its enemy so light and unsubstantial, or at the slipping of one of its feet into the drain, we cannot tell, but the result was that it came down and turned a complete somersault over the drain, carrying the umbrella along with it in its mad career!

When the bull scrambled to its feet again, and looked round in some surprise, it found that one of its legs and both its horns were through and entangled with the wrecked article.

It was a fine sight to witness the furious battle that immediately ensued between the black bull and that cotton umbrella! Rage at the man was evidently transmuted into horror at the article. The bull pranced and shook its head and pawed about in vain efforts to get rid of its tormenter. Shreds of the wreck flapped wildly in its eyes. Spider-like ribs clung to its massive limbs and poked its reeking sides, while the swaying handle kept tapping its cheeks and ears and nose, as if taunting the creature with being held and badgered by a thing so flimsy and insignificant!

Happily this stirring incident was not altogether unwitnessed. Far up the valley it was observed by four living creatures, three of whom immediately came tearing down the road at racing speed. Gradually their different powers separated them from each other. Archie came first, Eddie next, and Junkie brought up the rear. On nearing the field the first wrenched a stake out of a fence; the second caught up a rake, that had been left by the haymakers; and the last, unscrewing the butt of his rod, broke the line, and flourished the weapon as a cudgel. They all three leaped into the field one after another, and bore courageously down on the bull, being well accustomed to deal with animals of the sort.

Separating as they drew near, they attacked him on three sides at once. Short work would he have made with any of them singly; together they were more than his match. When he charged Junkie, Archie ran in and brought the stake down on his skull. When he turned on his assailant, Eddie combed his sides with the rake. Dashing at the new foe he was caught by the tail by Junkie, who applied the butt of his rod vigorously, the reel adding considerable weight to his blows. At last the bull was cowed—if we may venture to say so—and driven ignominiously into a corner of the field, where he vented his rage on the remnants of the umbrella, while the victors returned to the field of battle.

"But what's come of MacRummle?" said the panting Junkie as they gathered up the fish and replaced them in the basket. "I never saw him get over the wall. Did you?"

"No," replied Archie, looking round in surprise.

"I dare say he ran off while we were thumpin' the bull," suggested Eddie.

"I'm here, boys! I'm here, Junkie," cried a strange sepulchral voice, as if from the bowels of the earth.

"Where?" asked the boys gazing down at their feet with expressions of awe.

"He's i' the drain!" cried Junkie with an expanding mouth.

"Ay—that's it! I'm in the drain! Lend a hand, boys; I can hardly move."

They ran to him instantly, but it required the united powers of all three to get him out, and when they succeeded he was found to be coated all over one side with thick mud.

"What a muddle you've made of yourself, to be sure!" exclaimed Junkie. "Let me scrape you."

But MacRummle refused to be scraped until they had placed the five-foot wall between himself and the black bull. Then he submitted with a profound sigh.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PECULIAR INCIDENTS OF A SABBATH AMONG THE WESTERN ISLES.

One beautiful Sunday morning while the party assembled in Kinlossie House was at breakfast, a message was brought to the laird that he "wass wantit to speak wi' the poy Tonal'."

"Well, Donald, my lad, what want ye with me this fine morning?" asked the laird, on going out to the hall.

"I wass telt to tell ye the'll be no kirk the day, for the minister's got to preach at Drumquaich."

"Very well, Donald. Have you had breakfast?"

"Oo, ay."

"Go into the kitchen, then, and they will give you some more."

"Thenkee, sir."

"I find," said the laird on returning to his friends, "that we are to have no service to-day in our little church, as our minister has to take the duty at Drumquaich, on the other side of the loch. So those of you who are bent on going to church must make up your minds to cross the loch in the boat."

"Is Drumquaich the little village close under the pine wood, that we see on doubling Eagle Point?" asked Mabberly.

"The same. The little church there, like our own, is not supplied regularly. Sometimes a Divinity student is sent down to them. Occasionally they have a great gun from Edinburgh."

"I think some of the students are better than the great guns," remarked Mrs Gordon quietly.

"True, my dear, and that is most natural, for it stands to reason that some at least of the students must be the great guns of the future in embryo; and they have the freshness of youth to set against the weight of erudition."

"The student who preached to us here last Sunday," observed Barret, "must surely be an embryo great gun, for he treated his subject in a learned and masterly way that amazed me. From the look of him I would not have expected even an average discourse."

"That was partly owing to his modest air and reticence," returned the laird. "If you heard him converse on what he would call metapheesical subjects, you would perhaps have been still more surprised."

"Well, I hope he will preach to-day," said Barret.

"From which I conclude that you will be one of the boat party. My wife and Milly make three, myself four; who else?"

"No—don't count me" interrupted the hostess; "I must stay with Flo; besides, I must visit poor Mrs Donaldson, who is again laid up. But I'll be glad if you will take Aggy Anderson. Ever since the poor girl came here for a little change of air she has been longing to go out in the boat. I really believe it is a natural craving for the free, fresh breezes of the sea. May she go?"

"By all means; as many as the boat will hold," returned the laird.

It was finally arranged that, besides those already mentioned, Mabberly, Jackman, MacRummle, Quin, the three boys, Roderick the groom, and Ian Anderson, as boatman in charge, should cross over to the little church at Drumquaich, about eight miles distant by water.

While they were getting ready, Mrs Gordon and Flo, with the beloved black dolly, paid a visit to old Molly, the keeper's mother. They found her in her arm-chair, sitting by the large, open chimney, on the hearth of which a very small fire was burning—not for the sake of warmth, but for the boiling of an iron pot which hung over it.

The old woman was enveloped in a large, warm shawl—a gift from the "Hoose." She also wore a close-fitting white cap, or "mutch," which was secured to her head by a broad, black ribbon. The rims of her spectacles were of tortoiseshell, and she had a huge family Bible on her knee, while her feet rested upon a three-legged stool. She looked up inquiringly as her visitors entered.

"Why, Molly, I thought you were in bed. They told me you were ill."

"Na, mem, I'm weel eneuch in body; it's the speerit that's ill. And ye ken why."

She spoke in a faint, quavering voice, for her old heart had been crushed by her wayward, self-indulgent son, and a few tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks; but she was too old and feeble to give way to demonstrative grief. Little Flo, whose heart was easily touched, went close to the poor old woman, and looked up anxiously in her face.

"My bonny doo! It's a pleasure to look at ye," said the old woman, laying her hand on the child's head.

Mrs Gordon drew in a chair and sat down by her side.

"Tell me about it," she said confidentially; "has he given way again, after all his promises to Mr Jackman?"

"Oo, ay; Maister Jackman's a fine man, but he canna change the hert o' my son—though it is kind o' him to try. No, the only consolation I hev is here."

She laid her hand on the open Bible.

"Where is he just now?" asked the lady.

As she spoke, a fierce yell was heard issuing from the keeper's cottage, which, as we have said, stood close to his mother's abode.

"Ye hear till 'im," said the old woman with a sorrowful shake of the head. "He iss fery pad the day. Whiles he thinks that horrible craters are crawlin' ower him, an' whiles that fearful bogles are glowerin' at him. Sometimes he fancies that the foul fiend himsel' has gotten haud o' him, an' then he screeches as ye hear."

"Would it do any good, Molly, if I were to go and speak to him, think you?"

"Na, ye'd better let him lie. He's no' hissel' the now, and there's no sayin' what he might do. Oh! drink! drink!" cried the old creature, clasping her hands; "ye took my man awa', an' now ye're ruinin' my son! But," she added with sudden animation, "we can pray for him; though it iss not possible for you or Maister Jackman to change my bairn's hert, the Lord can do it, for wi' Him 'a' things are possible.'"

To this Mrs Gordon gave a hearty assent. Sitting still as she was, with hand resting on the old woman's arm, she shut her eyes and prayed fervently for the salvation of the enslaved man.

She was still engaged in this act of worship when another shriek was heard. At the same time the door of the keeper's cottage was heard to open, and Ivor's feet were heard staggering towards his mother's cottage. Poor Flo took refuge in great alarm behind Mrs Donaldson, while her mother, rising quickly, drew back a few paces.

Next moment the small door was burst open, and the keeper plunged, almost fell, into the room with something like a savage cheer. He was a terrible sight. With wildly dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes, and distorted features, he stood for a few seconds glaring at his mother; his tall figure swaying to and fro, while he held a quart bottle aloft in his right hand. He did not appear to observe the visitors, but continued to stare at his mother with an expression that perplexed her, accustomed though she was to his various moods.

"See, mother," he shouted fiercely, "I have done wi' the accursed thing at last!"

He dashed the bottle on the hearth with tremendous violence as he spoke, so that it vanished into minute fragments, while its contents spurted about in all directions. Happily very little of it went into the fire, else the cottage would have been set ablaze.