Just about the time on that Monday when Duncan sighted the muckle hart of Ben Glass, Lord Buntingdon came in from a walk round his tortoise enclosures at Ouse Hall—he had the finest collection of tortoises in the world—to receive from his butler a telegram:

Can you possibly come London to preside at very important indignation meeting of N.U.H. at Astrovegetarian Hall, Villiers Street, Strand next Friday at eight? Your presence would be intensely appreciated. Prew ready to come immediately to Ouse Hall if you desire further information

Buckham

“When did this come, Maple?”

“It has just this moment been telephoned through from the post-office, my lord.”

Lord Buntingdon went into the library and wrote his reply:

Percy Buckham, 15 Quilting Gardens, Primrose Hill, N.W. If my presence considered absolutely necessary will preside at meeting but shall be glad if Prew will come to Ouse Hall and explain full circumstances stop I shall be glad to put him up to-morrow or Wednesday night stop Please telegraph time of train’s arrival

Buntingdon

Such a telegram was typical of that progressive peer. His quick sympathies reacted immediately to the appeal or Percy Buckham, the Acting President of the N.U.H; but the blood of Whig and Liberal ancestors famous in English politics ran in his veins and with it the caution such an inheritance brought. Hence he answered the appeal, but at the same time was determined to know in advance exactly what his action would let him in for.

Later that day, just when Lord Buntingdon was returning from a second visit to his tortoise enclosures where his progressive mind, ever eager to leap ahead, disciplined itself by the contemplation of nature’s Fabians, Maple handed him another telegram:

Grateful thanks for your spirited attitude. Will arrive Buntingdon 7.26 to-morrow evening

Prew

Lord Buntingdon’s oval brow became slightly elliptical at the epithet ‘spirited.’ It had not occurred to him there was anything particularly spirited about his proposed action. It was rather a bore, certainly, going up to London in this hot August weather, but overcoming his own indolence was as much credit as he could take in the circumstances.

“The story you have just told me, Mr Prew, is certainly astonishing,” said Lord Buntingdon when he had listened at dinner the following evening to what the Secretary of the N.U.H. had to say about the adventures of the hikers in Glenbogle. “Do you suppose this Mr MacDonald is a Fascist?”

“No. Enquiries we have made do not indicate that there is any connection with Fascist activities, Lord Buntingdon. It would seem to be a case of unbridled individualism,” Mr Prew went on primly. “Indeed, one might almost say demented individualism.”

“I understand his annoyance about the grouse … but that does not mean I sympathize with such a deplorable loss of self-control.”