“You’d better toddle back to the Castle. Toker will look after you. Who won in the Coalmore?”

“Angus.”

“Oh, he did, did he? That’s good news.” He looked across to where Mrs MacDonald was sitting on the mound, almost as massive a female shape as the great statue of Liberty. “Trixie! Trixie!” She looked up and acknowledged his hail with her parasol. “Angus has won in the Coalmore!”

Mrs MacDonald tried to express gratification over the result of the ceòi mór, which was difficult partly on account of the distance between her and her husband, but chiefly because she had been the recipient of this announcement at about this time of the afternoon in every one of the last fourteen years. True, she was carrying a parasol this year instead of an umbrella for the first time.

“Hullo,” said Ben Nevis, “that’s a big busload of hikers from Fort William.”

A number of young men in khaki shorts and the usual polychrome of shirts were alighting from an omnibus which had just driven up to the field of the Gathering.

“You’re not going to order a general attack, I hope,” said Colonel Wolseley with a smile.

The Chieftain guffawed genially.

“Not to-day, Wolseley. Glenbogle is Liberty Hall today, what? Delighted to welcome everybody here to our Gathering. Even hikers. But look here, Wolseley. You and Hugh really must go and get some lunch.”

The laird of Kilwhillie was drawing one half of his moustache across his mouth in a manner that suggested he should eat part of it as a hors-d’œuvre if he and the Colonel did not soon sit down to a substantial meal.

They set out for the Castle, and Ben Nevis wandered patriarchally about the field. This was perhaps the hour in all his year he most enjoyed, this opportunity to meet the old friends of a lifetime, farmers and tradesmen, crofters, shepherds, schoolmasters and gillies. The enjoyment of his patriarchal promenade was much enhanced to-day by the perfection of the weather. The wrinkled faces of Donaldinas and Kennethinas, of Kirsties, Morags, Floras, Peggies and Ealaisaids usually smiled up at him from beneath dripping umbrellas. On this superb afternoon whatever moisture bedabbled them was caused not by rain but by the warmth of the blazing sun.

“Hullo, how are you, Jemima?”

“I’m feeling fine, thank you, sir. And how is yourself, Ben Nevis?”

“Grand, Jemima. Splendid gathering, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful, Ben Nevis. There never was a better, I’m sure.”

“Have you had a talk with Hector yet? He’s back from India.”

“No, I haven’t had a talk with Master Hector yet. From India? Fancy that now. It’s very warm in India, they say.”

“Jolly warm in Glenbogle to-day, what?”

“Och, indeed, yes, it is warm right enough.”

“And how’s the bottuck?”