And with this kindly pat on the head he re-erected his shepherd’s crook, and swung away along the shore towards Moymore and his letters. Grant stood motionless in the boat, watching him go. When he was nearly beyond earshot he called to him suddenly:
‘Are there any walking stones on Cladda?’
‘What?’ said Archie’s inadequate pipe.
‘Are there any walking stones on Cladda?’
‘No. They’re in Lewis.’
And the dragonfly creature with its mosquito voice went away into the brown distance.
3
They came home at tea-time with five unimpressive-looking trout and large appetites. Pat, excusing the thin trout, pointed out that on such a day you couldn’t expect to catch any but what he called ‘the sillies’; the respect-worthy fish had more sense than to be caught in such weather. They came down the last half-mile to Clune like homing horses, Pat skipping from turf to turf like a young goat and as voluble as he had been silent on the way out. The world and London river seemed the width of stellar space away, and Grant would not have called the King his cousin.
But as they scraped their shoes at the flagged doorway of Clune, he became aware of his unreasonable impatience to see that newspaper. And since he resented unreason in anyone and abominated it in himself he carefully scraped his shoes all over a second time.
‘Man, you’re awfully particular,’ said Pat, giving his footgear a rudimentary wipe on the twin scraper.