“No; I told you he wired me this morning. He has to open a sale of work at Strathpeffer. He’d promised and couldn’t get out of it. What a strange fellow you are, Hugh. A minute ago you were in a state of utter gloom, and now you’re humming to yourself.”

“I often do that, Donald. I caught the habit from my dear old mother. She used to hum over her patience, and then I used to hum.”

“I never heard you hum before,” said Ben Nevis, a little suspiciously. At that moment Chester Royde came into the Great Hall, and the Chieftain’s attention was diverted from Kilwhillie’s humming.

“Hullo, Royde. The glass has gone up a fraction since this morning. I believe we shall get it fine on Saturday.”

“That’s corking,” said the American guest enthusiastically. “But I give you fair warning, Ben Nevis, I’m going to enjoy myself, wet or fine.”

Presently he drew near to Kilwhillie and said in a low voice:

“It’s arrived. It’s up in my dressing-room now.”

“Oh, that’s splendid,” Kilwhillie gulped.

“Some time to-day or to-morrow I’d be mighty glad if you’d come along up to my room. I’d like to dress myself from top to toe and have you give me the O.K. for Saturday.”

“Of course, I’ll be delighted.” Kilwhillie gulped again.

“What are you two plotting over there?” their host barked genially.

But at that moment a piece of blue sky about the size of the flag over the Cambridge University Boathouse appeared in the sky, and he went charging out into the courtyard to gloat up at it.

“I’m afraid it is going to be fine on Saturday,” Kilwhillie murmured to himself.

“Afraid it is going to be fine?” Chester Royde exclaimed.

“Did I say that, Royde? I meant I’m afraid it’s not going to be fine.”

“Well, I don’t give a darn either way, Kilwhillie. I guess this orange kilt of mine will look fine if it’s a second deluge.”

“Orange kilt?” Kilwhillie gasped. “But you decided on a purple one.”

“Oh, I’m having a purple one as well, but it’s the orange one they’ve sent along from Inverness. I told the tailor if he couldn’t get both of them made in time to put all his work into finishing the orange one.”

“And he has?”

“He certainly has. It’s a peach. Say, why don’t you come up and have a look at it?”

“I think I’ll wait till you have it on,” said Kilwhillie in the voice of a man under sentence of death.

“But don’t breathe a word to Carrie about it. I aim to give her a little surprise on Saturday morning.”

“I don’t think you’ll miss,” Kilwhillie commented, with a touch of the sardonic in his tone.