SCENE--_In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers bound
for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the coach
"Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when the driver
will consider them sufficiently wet to start._
_The Head Boots (to the driver)._ There's another to come yet; he'll no
be lang now. (_The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and
surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl._) Up with ye,
sir, plenty of room on the second seats.
_The Surly Passenger._ And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my
hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (_He mounts, and takes up the
apron._) Here, driver, just look at this apron--it's sopping wet!
_The Driver (tranquilly)._ Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet
domp.
[Illustration: "Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to
it."]
_The Surly P._ Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got
a _dry_ one somewhere?
_The Driver._ There'll be dry ones at Collander.
_The Surly P. (with a snort)._ At Callander! Much good that is! (_With
crushing sarcasm._) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me
I'd better get inside the boot at once!
_The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession)._ Ou aye,
ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.
[_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up
a male and a female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately
behind the Surly Passenger._
_The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion)._ There's dear old
Mrs. Macfarlane, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing
out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about
the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!
[_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._
_Her Companion. That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden
_you_'re waving to. _She's_ keeping indoors--and shows her sense too.
_The Female P. (disgusted)._ Well, I _do_ think after our being at the
farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_,
that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything _they_
care----!
_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, ma'am, but that
umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my
neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!
_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, sir, but it's no worse for you
than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_
back, and _I_ don't complain.
_The Surly P._ I _do_, ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the
poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.
_A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely)._ On the contrary, sir, I find it
a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't
doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.
_A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the
sake of conversation)._ What fish do you catch in that river there?
_The Driver (with an effort)._ There'll be troots, an', maybe, a pairrch
or two.
_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?
_Driver (cautiously)._ Aye, it would be that.
_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.
_Driver (evasively)._ Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.
_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.
_Driver (more confidently)._ Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.
_Chatty P. (persistently)._ You've seen goldfish--know what they're
like, eh?
_Driver (placidly)._ I canna say I do.
[_They pass a shooting party with beaters._
_Chatty P. (as before)._ What are they going to shoot?
_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse
drivin'.
_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow
flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they
begin firing at the butts. I know they _have_ butts up on the moor,
because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man
throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse_?
_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, mem; they'll jist be
phaysants.
_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It
_does_ seem so cruel to kill them!
_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.
_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally
different thing.
_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?
_Driver._ Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.
_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of
interests on the route, I must say.
_Driver (modestly)._ There'll be them on the corch that know as much
aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a
cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over
yonder?
_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.
_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.
[_He relapses into a contented silence._
_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?
_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe
struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there
_Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his
way.
[_The Surly Passenger snorts as though he didn't consider this
information._
_The Lady P. (who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake").
Fitz-James who?_
_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's
his name on the side of this one.
_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_
it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I
suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.
_The Driver (to the Surly Passenger, with another outburst of
communicativeness)._ Yon stoan is called "Sawmson's Putting Stoan." He
hurrled it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.
[_The Surly Passenger receives this information with an incredulous
grunt._
_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley,
some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!
_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, mem; burrnt doon two or
three years back.
_The Lady P. (with a sense of the irony of events)._ _Burnt_ down! A
Hydropathic! Fancy!
_Male P. (as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa)._ There,
_that's_ Mr. Figgis's place.
_His Comp._ What--_that_? Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with
green venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything!
Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_
parts, seemingly!
_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be
better than being in the Caledonian Road!
[_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the caprices
of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia and the
Caledonian Road respectively._
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER"
_Mr. Punch_ is at present in the Highlands "a-chasing the deer."
_Mrs. Punch_ is at home, and has promised all her friends haunches of
venison as soon as they arrive!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "DESIRABLE"
_Saxon Passenger (on Highland coach)._ "Of course you're well acquainted
with the country round about here. Do you know 'Glen Accron'?"
_Driver._ "Aye, weel."
_Saxon Passenger (who had just bought the estate)._ "What sort of a
place is it?"
_Driver._ "Weel, if ye saw the deil tethered on't, ye'd just say 'Puir
brute'!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ISOLATION!--OFF THE ORKNEYS
_Southern Tourist._ "'Get any newspapers here?"
_Orcadian Boatman._ "Ou aye, when the steamer comes. If it's fine,
she'll come ance a week; but when it's stormy, i' winter, we dinna catch
a glint o' her for three months at a time."
_S. T._ "Then you'll not know what's goin' on in London!"
_O. B._ "Na--but ye see ye're just as ill aff i' London as we are, for
ye dinna ken what's gaun on here!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ON THE MOORS
_The Laird's Brother-in-law (from London)._ "It's very strange, Lachlan!
I'm having no luck!--and yet I seem to see two birds in place of one?
That was surely very strong whiskey your master gave me at lunch?"
_Keeper._ "Maybe aye and maybe no--the whuskey was goot; but any way ye
dinna manage to hit the richt bird o' the twa!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A POOR ADVERTISEMENT
_Tourist._ "I suppose you feel proud to have such a distinguished man
staying in your house?"
_Host of the "Drumdonnachie Arms."_ "'Deed no! A body like that does us
mair hairm than guid; his appearance is nae credit tae oor
commissariat!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: GENEROSITY
_Noble Lord (whose rifle has brought to a scarcely untimely end a very
consumptive-looking fallow deer)._ "Tut--t, t, t, t, tut! O, I say,
Stubbs!"--(_to his keeper_)--"you shouldn't have let me kill such a
poor, little, sickly, scraggy thing as this, you know! It positively
isn't fit for human food! Ah! look here, now! I'll tell you what. You
and McFarlin may have this buck between you!!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRAVELLER TOO BONA FIDE
_Dusty Pedestrian._ "I should like a glass of beer, missis, please----"
_Landlady._ "Hae ye been trevellin' by rell?"
_Pedestrian._ "No, I've been walking--fourteen miles."
_Landlady._ "Na, na, nae drink will ony yin get here, wha's been
pleesure-seekin' o' the Sawbath day!!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS
He goes on board the _Iona_. The only drawback to his perfect enjoyment
is the jealousy caused among all the gentlemen by the ladies clustering
round him on all occasions.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS
There were often unforeseen circumstances which gave to the Highland
stalking of those days an added zest!]
* * * * *