Pea-blossom is tired herself. If you but shake the whip over her she angrily nibbles at Corn-flower’s nose.
“He,” she says as plain as horse can speak, “is in the fault. I am pulling all I can, but he is not doing half the work.”
Dalnacardoch at long last.
Dalnacardoch! Why, the name is big enough for a good-sized town, or a village at the very least, but here is but a single house. In the good old coaching days it had been a coaching inn.
I go to the door and knock.
The butler appears.
“Who lives here?”
“A Mr Whitely, sir, from Yorkshire has the shooting.”
“Ha,” I think, “from Yorkshire? Then am I sure of a welcome.”
Nor was I mistaken. On a green flat grass plot, near to this Highland shooting-box lies the Wanderer; the horses are in a comfortable stable, knee-deep in straw, with corn and hay to eat in abundance, and I am happy and duly thankful.