“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I cannot take any part in such a proceeding. You must remember that I am Convener of the Police Committee of the County Council. It would put me in an impossible position. And if you’ll take the advice of a friend, Ben Nevis, you’ll avoid putting yourself in an impossible position by taking any such action as you contemplate. The proper course is to ask for their names and addresses and institute legal proceedings. If you take the law into your own hands you’ll expose yourself to an action for assault and false imprisonment. You may get heavy damages against you.”

“Look here, Lindsay-Wolseley, I don’t want you to take what I’m going to say personally. I’ve no desire to be offensive. But I’m not in the mood to be lectured about my actions. This band of miscreants camped last night on the banks of Loch Hoo, actually right round one of my freshly-painted No CAMPING notice-boards. Not content with that they’ve evidently been careering about all over Drumcockie this morning, and our Twelfth has been wrecked.”

“My dear Ben Nevis, do not misunderstand me. I sympathize profoundly over this beastly business. But when you ask me to take part with you in what amounts to a punitive expedition I should be no true friend of yours if I didn’t try to dissuade you from such an action. I suppose you’ll call me a cold-blooded Lowlander, but I do beg you to think twice before you embark upon a course of action the consequences of which may be … I mean to say, Ben Nevis, we landed proprietors cannot afford to stir up popular feeling in these democratic days.”

“Clap-trap!”

“What?”

“I said clap-trap, Lindsay-Wolseley. You’re talking Bolshie clap-trap.”

“You are allowing your feelings to get the better of you, Ben Nevis,” the Colonel observed, a dull flush asserting itself beneath the brownish-yellow dye of the Indian sun.

“I have no desire to quarrel with you, Lindsay-Wolseley.”

“I accept that, Ben Nevis. So let us say no more about it,” the Colonel replied, with a gesture of old-world courtliness. “I’m very sorry that the splendid sport you’ve been giving us has been interfered with by uninvited guests.”

“I suppose Bottley won’t be any more anxious than you to round up these filthy hikers,” Ben Nevis growled, with a glance in the direction of Sir Hubert Bottley, the owner of the famous forest of Cloy which had been bought by his father, the first baronet, out of Bottley’s Bottled Beans.

“I won’t answer for him,” said the Colonel hurriedly. “Bottley must decide for himself.”