VI.
This morning I had a note from a farmer in the neighbourhood.
"Dear Sir,—I send my son Andrew to get education at the school not Radical politics.
I am,
Yours respectfully,
Andrew Smith."
I called Andrew out.
"Andrew," I said, with a smile, "when you go home to-night tell your father that I hate Radicalism possibly more than he does."
The father came down to-night to apologise. "Aw thocht ye was ane o' they wheezin' Radicals," he explained. Then he added, "And what micht yer politics be?"
"I am a Utopian," I said modestly.
He scratched his head for a moment, then he gave it up and asked my opinion of the weather. We discussed turnips for half-an-hour, at the end of which time I am sure he was wondering how an M.A. could be such an ignoramus. We parted on friendly terms.
* * *