DURING THE NEXT two or three days nothing occurred to precipitate a direct clash with the forces of the hikers. Reports came in of No Camping notice-boards being thrown down or defaced, but none of the Glenbogle keepers or gillies caught more than an occasional glimpse of the elusive invaders. The Castle garrison lost Murdoch MacDonald, who had to rejoin his ship, his leave being over. However, as nobody in the Castle was aware of Buckham’s proposal to attack, seize and occupy it, nobody was particularly worried by the departure of Murdoch and his bulging muscles.

Ben Nevis was annoyed by the news about the notice-boards, but he contented himself with giving orders to destroy any camping equipment found on his land and to hale before his judgment-seat every hiker caught trespassing.

This judgment-seat (Cathair-breitheanais Mhic ’ic Eachainn) was a prostrate megalith upon a grassy mound overlooking the Bogle about half a mile down the glen.

“From time immemorial Mac ’ic Eachainn has sat here to give judgment,” the Chieftain proclaimed solemnly to his guests. “Cahavrayanishvickickyackan we call it in the Gaelic.”

“That must have frightened bad men out of this part of the country before there was any need of a posse,” observed Chester Royde. “You might click that out again, will you?”

“Cahavrayanishvickickyackan.”

“You know, Carrie,” her husband said gravely, “the more I hear of Gaelic the more it reminds me of the Carroway language. That sounds very like ‘pleased to meet you’ in Carroway. It sounds a bit like ducks in a marsh too, but then so does ‘pleased to meet you’ in Carroway.”

“How is it spelt, Ben Nevis?” Carrie asked. She was sure such a word was right outside the scope of Gaelic Without Tears. Indeed, it was a cataract in itself.

“Ah, I’m afraid I can’t spell it for you,” said Ben Nevis. “As a matter of fact very few people can spell in Gaelic, and I always believe those who say they can only get away with it because nobody else can, if you see what I mean. No, I picked up my Gaelic by ear from my nurse. I used to rattle it off when I was four years old.”

“I’ve got it,” Chester exclaimed.

“Got what?”

“What that word reminded me of. It’s not ducks. It’s a machine-gun. Say it once again, will you?”

“Cahavrayanishvickickyackan.”

“Yes, it’s just the noise a machine-gun makes in action. And you picked up that word by ear, Ben Nevis, when you were four years old?”

“I did indeed. And my nurse used to sit up there with me and tell me stories about my ancestors. I always remember what an impression Hector MacDonald, the fourth of Ben Nevis, made on me. He had a tusk.”

“A tusk?” Chester Royde exclaimed.