"Never meet troubles half-way, my lad," was the answer. "For troubles, you know, are never quite so bad when they do come as we imagined they would be. The cloud approaching the moon is black and dark, but lo! when it gets in front the light shines through."
"Well, sir," said Creggan, "I shall always try to think of that, but I myself do not mind storms. I was thinking of lonely Matty's father if we get lost."
* * * * * * * * * * *
Creggan had a botanical case slung over his shoulder and Nugent a much larger one. This latter contained the luncheon.
They collected a large number of specimens on an upland moor they reached about one o'clock. Many of these were well-known to the boy, but he could only give Gaelic and English names to them.
Now, in a mountainous or Alpine region like that of Skye, however high you climb it seems there are still higher hills ahead of you. By three o'clock Creggan suggested that they should not go farther.
It was good advice, for the sea-damp wind from the west was increasing every minute, while away to the east the moisture had already condensed against the cold sides of the lofty hills, and here the wind was blowing high, sweeping before it a genuine Scotch mist.
Very few people in England have any idea what a real Scotch mist means. Some think it is a fog, some a drizzle. It is neither. It is rain broken up into mist by the violence of the wind, and driven along the sides of the hills or valleys in intermittent clouds. It is searching, bitter, miserable, and will not only wet an Englishman to the skin in five minutes, but will penetrate even the plaid of a Scot.
They now sat down to luncheon. It was a very sumptuous one, for Nugent was nothing if not a good and generous eater. As he discussed his meal he talked away right merrily, and told Creggan scores of humorous and other anecdotes of colonial life and adventure. So delightful were these that Creggan said he longed to be there.
"If," he continued, "I could only take poor Oscar."