He carried a gun over his shoulder, and two beautiful Irish setters walked behind him. Both dogs were lame.
“Hullo, fellows!” he said. “Glad I’ve met some one at last. How far have I to walk to the little inn at the klakkin?”
Dugald threw down his game-bag, so did the others their burdens. No one was sorry to rest a bit, so they leant against the dyke and quietly surveyed the stranger. Meanwhile Shot was standing defiantly in front of the setters.
Shot wanted to know if either of these dogs would oblige him by fighting, singly or the two at once. But they did not seem inclined to accept the challenge.
“My good fellow,” said the stranger, “when you have stared sufficiently to satisfy you, perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question.”
“Well,” said Dugald, “I’m staring because it’s astonished I am.”
“You’d be more astonished if you knew who I am. But never mind. I’ve been travelling all day among these tiresome hills and only managed to kill one brown hare. I was told at the inn that the white hares were in hundreds.”
“Very likely,” said Dugald, “but it’s no’ in the glen you’ll find them.
“You’re two miles from the clachan,” continued Dugald. “I’m McGregor’s keeper—his chief keeper. I’ll trouble you, sir, to show your permit.”
“You’re a saucy fellow. I’m the future owner of these glens and all the estate, and lord of Castle Alva.”