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.
_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!
[Illustration: "Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to
it."]
_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 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 in-doors--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
hurried 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._
* * * * *