"Yes," said one of the ladies—the pretty one—"we are dying to see the paradise of A Dominie's Log. Is it so very wonderful?"
"Marvellous!" I cried. "But the Dominie is a funny sort of chap, sensitive and very shy. You mustn't give him a hint that you know anything about his book; simply say that you want to see a Scots school at work."
They thanked me, and set off for the school.
I loafed about until they returned.
"Well?" I said, "what do you think of it?"
"The fellow is an impostor!" said the man indignantly. "I expected to see them all out of doors chewing gum and sweets, and—"
"There wasn't a chin moving in the whole crowd!" cried the young lady.
"The book was a parcel of lies," said the other lady, "and when I next want a dollar's worth of fiction I reckon I'll plump for Hall Caine or Robert Chambers. The man wouldn't speak."
"I mentioned Dewey's Schools of To-Day," said the man, "and he stared at me as if I were talking Greek."
I directed them to the village inn for lunch, and I walked up the brae chuckling.