Carrie would have shuddered if there had been room to shudder beside Chester in her runabout, but there was no room for more than the faintest twitch of disgust, and even that was not easy.

“Tell me, Chester,” she said presently, “how did you like the poet?”

“He didn’t say a great deal. I thought poets always had a mouthful to say. But I liked that tartan of his.”

“He was unusually quiet this afternoon. I guess he must have been thinking about a poem.”

“Maybe he was. I don’t know what way that takes anybody, but I suppose poetry’s something like crossword puzzles, and they keep people quiet except when they’re asking fool questions of other people to get themselves out of a dictionary jam.”

When the car reached Kenspeckle a party of hikers bowed down by camping equipment were alighting from a Fort William omnibus. Among them was Mr Sydney Prew.

“Why, there’s that spider-legged guy Ben Nevis shook up on the Twelfth!” Chester exclaimed, pulling up and jumping out of the car without sticking long enough in the door for Carrie to tug at his doublet and beseech him to do nothing rash.

The hikers looked apprehensive. Loaded as they were with camping equipment, they were incapable of defending themselves against what they supposed was the Highland chieftain on whom they had declared war.

The Secretary of the N.U.H. allayed their anxiety and came forward primly to meet Chester Royde.

“Can I give you any information?” he asked He did not recognize Chester as one of those who had attacked him on the Twelfth.

“No, you can’t; but I can give you some information,” said Chester truculently. “I can inform you that you’re safer away from this part of Scotland. There’s a war on up here, and you may get hurt.”

“Oh, indeed?” asked Mr Prew perkily. “And may one enquire if you are one of the enemy?”

He remembered that the reinforcements he was bringing to the Acting President were not in a position to offer fight at the moment, but he did not suppose that this orange-kilted Fascist bully would venture to attack twelve of them. Moreover, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Constable MacGillivray was within hail.

“I had the pleasure of helping to run you out of Glenbogle just over a fortnight ago,” said Chester. “And I’ll have great pleasure in repeating the operation. Only, I’ll make you hurry twice as fast next time.”

The Secretary turned to his detachment.

“Boys, this is one of them,” he said. “I recognize him now.” Then he turned to Chester again. “I do not know your name, Mr. Mac …”

“Mr Mac nothing!”

“Mr MacNothing.”

“My name’s Royde, not MacNothing,” Chester shouted wrathfully.