“We were so captivated by the site of our camp that on the vote being put to the party it was decided nem. con. to prolong our sojourn there for another night and to spend the day in comparative idleness preparatory to a formidable hike of twenty-five miles the following day through some of the most majestic mountain scenery in the British Isles. In the morning we bathed in the clear invigorating waters of Loch Hoo. In the afternoon we decided to wander up the braes of Strathdiddle and take our tea in the bonny purple heather, as the song hath it. The kettles were singing on the spirit-lamps. Note that, please. We were faithful to the rule of the N.U.H. which exhorts members to abstain from lighting fires where the lighting of such fires may cause the faintest risk of damage to the countryside. The kettles, I say, were singing on the spirit-lamps. The Little Songster had just been tuned in to Crooner’s Corner, that very popular new feature on which the B.B.C. is so much to be congratulated because by instituting such a feature it shows it is not afraid to stand up for popular taste against the would-be tyranny of musical highbrows. Not that I condemn musical highbrows as such. Far from it. I am something of a musical highbrow myself. I positively revel in Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite for instance, but I do not want to ram Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite down the throats of those who prefer Bing Crosby or Henry Hall. But I am digressing. Well, there we were in the bonny purple heather doing no harm to anybody or anything, waiting for the kettles to boil and listening to one of Henry Hall’s crooners on the Little Songster, when suddenly a line of kilted figures armed with guns appeared on the skyline. When I tell you that these were the first kilts we had seen since we stepped out of the train at Perth five days earlier, and when I remind you that our hearts had recently beaten high at the tale of Killiecrankie and the death of Bonny Dundee, you will understand how excited we were by what seemed a vision of the glamorous past. Those of us who had cameras had hastily trained them upon the advancing line, when suddenly one of the kilted figures charged forward ahead of the rest and in the voice of a bull of Bashan demanded to know what we were doing on his land. I as the senior of the party and Secretary of the N.U.H. stepped forward to explain the scope and objects of the Union, but before I was able to utter more than a few words this Mr MacDonald of Ben Nevis as he calls himself seized the collar of my shirt and shook me—I will not say as a dog shakes a rat because I absolutely refuse to admit the justice of such a comparison. But no matter. He was a bigger man than myself and he did not scruple to take a mean advantage of his strength and size. Then he dropped me in a sudden access of fresh rage and fired both barrels of his gun into Tom Camidge’s Little Songster. I shall leave Tom Camidge to tell his own story. It is enough to say now that when he protested at the brutal treatment of his portable wireless-set this bully MacDonald turned on Tom and shook him as violently and brutally as he had shaken me. This naturally roused Miss Winifred Gosnay, who with great courage like a real Joan of Arc attacked the infuriated landowner with her staff.