It ran thus:
Brand, Post office, Oban. Page 117, paragraph 3. Ochterlony.
I passed it to Gresson with a rueful face.
“There’s a piece of foolishness,” I said. “I’ve got a cousin who’s a Presbyterian minister up in Ross-shire, and before I knew about this passport humbug I wrote to him and offered to pay him a visit. I told him to wire me here if it was convenient, and the old idiot has sent me the wrong telegram. This was likely as not meant for some other brother parson, who’s got my message instead.”
“What’s the guy’s name?” Gresson asked curiously, peering at the signature.
“Ochterlony. David Ochterlony. He’s a great swell at writing books, but he’s no earthly use at handling the telegraph. However, it don’t signify, seeing I’m not going near him.” I crumpled up the pink form and tossed it on the floor. Gresson and I walked to the Tobermory together.
That afternoon, when I got a chance, I had out my Pilgrim’s Progress. Page 117, paragraph 3, read:
“Then I saw in my dream, that a little off the road, over against the Silver-mine, stood Demas (gentlemanlike) to call to passengers to come and see: who said to Christian and his fellow, Ho, turn aside hither and I will show you a thing.
At tea I led the talk to my own past life. I yarned about my experiences as a mining engineer, and said I could never get out of the trick of looking at country with the eye of the prospector. “For instance,” I said, “if this had been Rhodesia, I would have said there was a good chance of copper in these little kopjes above the town. They’re not unlike the hills round the Messina mine.” I told the captain that after the war I was thinking of turning my attention to the West Highlands and looking out for minerals.
“Ye’ll make nothing of it,” said the captain. “The costs are ower big, even if ye found the minerals, for ye’d have to import a’ your labour. The West Hielandman is no fond o’ hard work. Ye ken the psalm o’ the crofter?