McTaggart, or "Mac," as he was familiarly called, the guest of the evening and the hero of the hour, related many amusing incidents which had come under his notice while Clerk of the Public Works.
"On one occasion," he said, "while returning by steamer from Lachine, an oddly-dressed person sailed along with us. He had a short-tailed blue coat with metal buttons that once had been clear, but the salt spray of the Atlantic Ocean had dimmed their lustre, a woollen-striped, double-breasted waistcoat, while a pair of velveteen pantaloons graced his hurdies. He was a forward kind of little man from the south of Scotland, who had paid little attention to the cut of his whiskers, and the hair of his head seemed to furnish a good cover for game of a peculiar kind.
"The tone of my voice, or some other Scotch keepsake, drew him near me, when the following confab took place:
"'I hae surely seen your face some gate afore, mon, but whar it's mair than I can cleverly tell.'
"'At the fair o' Minnyvive, man?' quoth I. 'Are not ye'—there I hung fire. He helped me out by adding:
"'The Laird o' Birrboy.'
"'Exactly,' I replied, and he believed or seemed to believe me, although I had never seen his face in my life before.
"As the steamboat neared the Lake of Two Mountains, on the Ottawa, giving the passengers a peep at the wilderness, 'What a lang planting!' he exclaimed. 'I wonner wha's Laird o't?'
"I replied in a kind of knowing manner that he would see the Laird presently, and shortly we came upon an Indian encampment by the bank of the river. The Indians were busy among their canoes, skinning some deer and muskrats they had caught.
"'Yonder, Birrboy, yonder's the Laird!' quoth I, pointing to an Indian Chief with the feathers of wild birds stuck round in his hat, and long silver earrings hanging down on his shoulders.