Gorcocks stretched their red necks and stared at them in wonder. Ptarmigans, too cold to fly, ran and hid in the heather, the black cock and the grey hen often flew past them with a wild whirr-r-r, while far above, circling round and round in the blue sunny sky, was the bird of Jove himself.
But it was not the gorcock, nor black cock, nor the ptarmigan, nor the great golden eagle itself they were after, but the white or mountain hare.
And the sport was good. They took time to dine, though, for the air was bracing and keen; then they shot again till nearly sunset, and Kenneth’s cheek flushed redder than usual as Dugald praised him for his skill as a marksman. But at the same time Dugald praised himself indirectly, for he added, “But no thanks to you, lad; sure, haven’t you had Dugald McCrane himself to teach you this many a long day?”
Archie was wonderfully strong, but he couldn’t carry half the hares, so Dugald and Kenneth had to help him as well as carry their own and their guns, and even Shot carried a white hare all the way to the glen below.
“Of course,” said Kenneth, “you’ll come up the glen, Dugald, to our cottage, and let us show my mother our game; she will be so pleased.”
“’Deed, and I will, then,” replied Dugald, “and there will be a pair of hares for the old lady, too, and one for Nancy the witch—goodness be about us—for the laird wrote me to say if I killed more than a dozen and a half to-day, I was to do what I liked with the rest.”
“Dear old laird!” said Kenneth; “why doesn’t he come down from London and stay among his people? We all love him so much.”
“Ah! Kennie, he has ruined himself, like mony mair Highland lairds, by stoppin’ in the big city, and it’s myself that is sorry. But see, wha comes here?”
It was a tall stranger, dressed in knickerbockers, a broad-brimmed soft felt hat, and a surtout coat, a very ridiculous association of garments.