But I dinna ken whether it was the poetry of the day or the great biscuit he had just spread wi' jam that moved him! At any rate there was no doot at a' as to what moved a great wasp that flew in through the window just then. It wanted that jam biscuit, and Mac dropped it.

But that enraged the wasp, and it stung Mac on the little finger. He yelled. The girl who was singing in the next room stopped; the birds, frightened, flew away. I leaped up--I wanted to help my suffering friend.

But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding tea poured itself out all over poor Mac's legs. He screamed again, and went tearing about the room holding his finger. I followed him, and I had heard that one ought to do something at once if a man were scalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs.

But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever. I chased him round and round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by his sufferings.

"Are ye no better the noo, Mac?" I asked.

That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in. I'm afraid they heard language from Mac not fit for any woman's ears, but ye'll admit the man was not wi'oot provocation!

"Better?" he shouted. "Ye muckle fool, you--you've ruined a brand new pair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!"

It was amusing, but it had its serious side. We had no selections on the violin at that night's concert, nor for several nights after, for Mac's finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it. And for a long time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleased by just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way: "Hoo's yer pinkie the noo, Mac?"

It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventure that micht weel ha' had serious results. We had a Sunday to spend, and decided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of which we had all heard wondrous tales. And after our concert we were introduced to a man who asked us if we'd no like a little fun on the Sawbath nicht. It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous.

So we accepted his invitation gladly.

Next evening then, in the gloamin', he turned up at our lodgings, wi'

two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher--a lurcher is a coursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound.

He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat. But, noo that I gied him a closer look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like. He was a braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in his een. But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along.

I liked well enow to hear him talk. He knew his country, and spoke intelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway. Truly the scenery was superb. The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful.

But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the sun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closing down fast aboot us. We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke the stillness. Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly as ghosts in the heather.

We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised. And it was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin'

back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a rabbit firmly in their mouths.

"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered.

"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs.

"I envy you," he said. "It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi'

dogs and guns."

"And the keepers," I suggested.

"Aye--there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!"

Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands in the darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us? So it was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht across the moor.

"What's yon?" I asked our host, pointing to it.

"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose," he answered, indifferently. "I expect they'll be takin' a walk aroond verra soon, tae."

"Eh, then," I said, "would we no be doing well to be moving hameward?

If anyone comes this way I'll be breaking the mile record between here and Creetown!"

The poacher laughed.

"Ay, maybe," he said. "But if it's old Adam Broom comes ye'll hae to be runnin' faster than the charge o' shot he'll be peppering your troosers wi' in the seat!"

"Eh, Harry," said Mac, "it's G.o.d's blessings ye did no put on yer kilt the nicht!"

He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I did not, I'm telling ye.

And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby.

"We're pinched, for sure, Mac," I said.

"Eh, and if we are we are," he said, philosophically. "What's the fine for poaching, Harry?"

We stood clutching one anither, and waitin' for the gun to speak. But the poacher whispered.

"It's all richt," he said. "It's a farmer, and a gude friend o' mine."

So it proved. The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he'd been having a stroll through the heather before he went to bed. I gied him a cigar--the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that.

We walked along wi' him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of the road that led to his steading. But the poacher was not grateful, for he sent the dogs into one of the farmer's corn fields as soon as he was oot of our sicht.

"There's hares in there," he said, "and they're sure to come oot this gate. You watch and nail the hares as they show."

He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I made ready to kick any animal that appeared. Soon two hares appeared, rustling through the corn. I kicked out. I missed them, but I caught Mac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones but hit me instead! We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping still we were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some strong language as well, I'm fearing. We'd forgotten, d'ye ken, that it was the Sawbath eve!

Aweel, I staggered to my feet. Then oot came more hares and rabbits, and after them the twa dogs in full chase. One hit me as I was getting up and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water.

Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending! Mac was as scared as I by that time, and when he'd helped me from the ditch we looked aroond for our poacher host. We were afraid to start hame alane. He showed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu' well pleased with his nicht's work.

I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons! We were sorry looking wretches. An' we were awfu' remorsefu', too, when we minded the way we'd broken the Sawbath and a'--for a' we'd not known what was afoot when we set out.

But it was different in the morn! Oh, aye--as it sae often is! We woke wi' the sun streamin' in our window. Mac leaned on his hand and sniffed, and looked at me.

"Man, Harry," said he, "d'ye smell what I smell?"

And I sniffed too. Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs frae the kitchen. I leaped up.

"'Tis hare, Mac!" I cried. "Up wi' ye! Wad ye be late for the breakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?"

CHAPTER VIII

Could go on and on wi' tales of yon good days wi' Mac. We'd our times when we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht. There was much philosophy in Mac. He was a kindly man, for a' his quick temper; I never knew a kinder. And he taught me much that's been usefu' to me. He taught me to look for the gude in a' I saw and came in contact wi'. There's a bricht side to almost a' we meet, I've come to ken.

It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel'. It seemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a' the funny, sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to help to mak' them merrier. I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, the great violinist. But ye'd never ha' thocht our work was divided sae had ye been wi' us.

It was to me that fell one o' the few heart-rending episodes o' the whole tour. Again it's the story of a man who thocht the world owed him a living, and that his mission was but to collect it. Why it is that men like that never see that it' not the world that pays them, but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, and trusting them, and seeking to help them?