About one hundred and fifty years ago, there lived in Dumfries a worthy man of the name of Gillespie, who followed the honest, though highly unpopular, occupation of excise officer or gauger. At the time my tale begins, he had just been appointed to a new district in the Highlands, and it is while on his journey there that I first make his acquaintance. Behold him then, a tall, thin, ungainly figure, with a consequential, self-important air, dressed in a coat of bottle-green cloth, with large silver-gilt buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, corduroy breeches, and top boots. A tall peaked hat, with narrow brim, a large drab overcoat, and a sword-stick, completed his costume. He was mounted on a small shaggy pony or “gearran,” with neither shoes, bit, nor saddle, whose head was secured by the taod, or Highland bridle, made of horse hair, and in lieu of a saddle was a housing of straw mat, on which was placed a wooden pack-saddle, called a “strathair,” having two projections like horns, on which was hung the luggage of the rider. This “strathair” was kept in position by girths of straw rope, and was prevented from going too far forward by an antique kind of crupper, consisting of a stick passing under the animal’s tail, and braced at each end to the “strathair.” Having jogged along for a considerable time through a lonely moor, without meeting any sign of human habitations, it occurred to Mr Gillespie that he had lost his way. While staring about for something to guide him, he was nearly dismounted by the sudden starting of his pony, and on pulling up, he discovered that he had almost ridden over a young red-headed Highlander, who was lying among the heather, indolently supporting his head on one hand, while with the other he leisurely picked the blaeberries that grew so plentifully around him. On seeing what he considered a duine-uasal, the lad started to his feet, and grasping a forelock of his curly hair, made a profound bow.
The equestrian stared a moment at the bare-legged, bare-footed, bare-headed figure who had so suddenly appeared, and after stiffly returning his curtsy, inquired how far it was to Dunvegan? The other, shaking his head, replied, ‘Chan ’eil Beurla agam’ (I have no English).
Now this was certainly very awkward, as the stranger did not know Gaelic, but it is surprising what people will do in desperate circumstances, so with the aid of nods and signs, and a little English that Eachainn had managed to pick up while at school, they made shift to understand one another.
‘Is it to Dunvegan, then, you’ll want to be going, sir?’ inquired Eachainn.
‘Yes, and I am afraid that I shall not be able to find my way there without your assistance,’ responded Gillespie.
‘And may be you’ll be stopping there for some time?’ proposed the lad, scratching one bare knee with his sharp uncut nails as he spoke.
‘What does it matter to you, my lad, whether my stay there will be long or short? All I want just now is to get there.’
‘Is it far you’ll be coming the day, sir?’ inquired the other, with an air of respectful deference, strangely inconsistent with the apparent bluntness of the question.
‘What business is that of yours? Is it necessary for your showing me the road that I should tell you all my history?’
‘May be you’ll be coming from the change-house of Loch-Easkin?’ pursued Eachainn, without appearing to notice the rebuke of the stranger’s reply.