“What a dust those two girls of mine are kicking up,” Ben Nevis exclaimed. “That shows you how dry it is, Hugh. Stop at the post-office in Kenspeckle, Johnnie.”

The small village of Kenspeckle lay about a mile along the main road westward from the entrance to Glenbogle. Ben Nevis strode into the post-office and demanded a form on which to write a cablegram to India. He was supplied by an old lady of about eighty with bright eyes and gold spectacles.

“Wonderful weather we’re having, Mrs. Macdonald.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful weather indeed, Ben Nevis. I don’t remember the like of such weather in August since I left school.”

“Where’s Willie?”

“Willie’s away out, Ben Nevis. He had to see a traveller in Fort Augustus about some biscuits which never reached us.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“Och, he’ll be coming back some time, Ben Nevis.”

“Well, I’m anxious for this cable to go off as soon as possible.”

“That will be quite all right, Ben Nevis. He’ll send it as soon as he comes back from Fort Augustus.”

The Chieftain wrote his cablegram:

Lieutenant Hector MacDonald

Clanranald Highlanders

Tallulahgabad

Punjab

Ask Colonel Rose-Ross as special favour to self to give you month’s leave for urgent family business impossible to specify in cablegram stop if leave granted come by plane earliest possible moment. Ben Nevis.

“How much is that, Mrs Macdonald?”

The old lady shook her head.

“I don’t know at all, Ben Nevis. Willie will know. But what does that matter? Next time anybody from the glen is passing will be time enough to pay for the telegram. So Master Hector’s coming home? Isn’t that splendid, now?”

“Yes, we’ll all be glad to see him.”

“Indeed, yes. Such a fine young gentleman. Very like yourself, Ben Nevis.”

A compliment from a woman was to Ben Nevis always agreeable whatever her age. He beamed.

“Well, good morning, Mrs Macdonald. And mind Willie sends that cablegram as soon as he comes in.”

“Oh indeed, yes, Ben Nevis. Willie will be wanting to see Master Hector back himself as soon as possible.”

The Chieftain strode from the post-office and climbed back into the Daimler.

“Well, I hope with any luck Hector will be home for the Gathering.”

“The Gathering? What’s that?” Chester Royde asked.

“Our little Glenbogle Gathering. We hold it on August 28th this year. Quite a humble affair, of course. We don’t compete with Inverness or Oban or Braemar. But we preserve the old spirit.”

“But what’s the gathering for?”

“Oh, tossing the caber and running and dancing and piping. Friendly rivalry and all that sort of thing. It’s the only day in the year I encourage trippers. They come in buses. You’ll enjoy it, Royde. You’ll see a fine display of tartan.”