I was once crossing in an open rowing boat from Skye to Raasay, propelled by two men, a younger Highlander, who sat nearest to me, and an elderly man on the bench beyond. The latter was dressed in a kilt, and with his unkempt locks and rugged features, made a singularly picturesque figure. My neighbour caught my eye now and then fixed on his comrade, and at last he broke silence with a question:
‘You’re looking at Sandy, sir, I see?’
‘Yes, he is well worth looking at. He must be an old man, though he seems to pull his oar well still.’
‘Ay, I’m sure, he’s an auld man noo. But ye wass hearin’ o’ Sandy afore?’
‘No, I don’t think I have ever seen or heard of him before. What about him?’
‘D’ye mean, sir, railly noo, that you never heard tell o’ Sandy o’ the Braes?’
‘No, really, I never did. What is he famous for?’
‘Ochan! Ochan! wass ye never kennin’ aboot his medal?’
‘Medal! no, so he is an old soldier is he? What battle was he at?’
‘Sodger! He’s never been at ony battles, for he wass never oot o’ Skye and the islands.’