“I sympathize with you, Royde. But I’d rather you didn’t hit any of these brutes this afternoon. I mean to say, Glenbogle is Liberty Hall to-day. Highland hospitality and all that sort of thing, don’t you know? It’s a tradition with us in Glenbogle. In the old days we even welcomed Macintoshes who came to the Gathering, and normally of course we cut the throat of any Macintosh at sight.”

“I don’t want to break up tradition, Ben Nevis, but if that guy with Cape Cod tacked on to the lower part of his face sends any more of his young friends to stare me up and down I don’t believe I’ll be able to keep from hitting him.”

“Look here, Royde, the prize-giving will start in another few minutes. You don’t want to wait for that. It takes about an hour with the speeches, and it’ll be very hot in the tent. Why don’t you stroll along back to the Castle and have a drink? I’d suggest your going into the Committee tent, but it’s full of flies and you hate flies.”

“I went into the Committee tent. Major MacIsaac kindly offered me a highball. But every time I looked up one of these hikers was peeping in at me around the flap.”

“I never heard anything so outrageous,” the Chieftain declared warmly. “I tell you this, Royde, if a single hiker dares show himself in Glenbogle after to-day I’ll have him thrown into the Bogle.”

“He won’t find me standing by with a hook to fish him out,” the indignant Royde vowed.

“That fellow’s face is curiously familiar to me,” said Ben Nevis, looking again at the man with the chin, who it is hardly necessary to say was Percy Buckham himself. “I’ve seen him somewhere. But where, that’s the question?” Just then another old crony who had not yet had a chance of a gossip came up, and when Ben Nevis looked round again Chester Royde had wandered off.