“Fellow members of the N.U.H., after the fiery eloquence of your Acting President you will not be inclined to listen to any words of mine. You are all eager, I know, to register your names with Mr Prew. It may perhaps savour to you of a certain pusillanimity, but I think it is my duty as your President to counsel a certain moderation in any action you take against this Scotch landowner. The reprisals you take should be strictly confined to personal reprisals. They should not include his game or his crops or his fishing. I know Mr. Buckham will not consider any such action, but I feel it is my duty to give you this counsel and I am sure you will appreciate the spirit in which it is given. Nothing remains for me except to ask you to accord a very hearty vote of thanks to the speakers who have given us such an enjoyable feast of oratory.”

While Mr Prew sat at a table writing down the names of the volunteers and the dates on which they would be available for active service, Lord Buntingdon took Mr Buckham aside.

“I hope you didn’t mind my giving that little caution, Mr Buckham. I know you would frown upon any type of agrarian outrage, but I felt it would help if I expressed myself strongly against it. Let this be a personal struggle with this MacDonald fellow, but don’t damage his property.”

“You can rely on me, Lord Buntingdon.”

“That’s capital. Well, I think I’ll be getting back to Ouse Hall. Will you kindly ask somebody to call my chauffeur?”

Chapter 14

THE GLENBOGLE GATHERING

DURING THE WEEK after that meeting in the Astro-vegetarian Hall, of whose weighty decisions not a rumour reached the Chieftain, he was worried by two questions. First whether his son Hector MacDonald, Younger, of Ben Nevis would arrive from India in time for the Glenbogle Gathering on Saturday, August 28th, and secondly whether the sun would shine upon the great occasion.

His mind was put at rest over Hector by receiving a telegram on Thursday to say he would be at Fort William on Friday morning, after which his anxiety was concentrated upon the weather. A dozen times a day he played a tattoo upon the aneroid barometer, and as for Admiral Fitzroy’s liquid column, on which the devil’s own tattoo would have made no impression, it ran a danger of being petrified into eternal insensitiveness to any atmospheric pressure by the gorgonian glares with which he was continually regarding it.

“I can’t understand this infernal weather,” he barked. “Can you understand this infernal weather, Hugh?”