But I got up so quickly that I upset the teapot, and the scalding tea poured itself out all over poor Mac’s legs.  He screamed again, and went tearing about the room holding his finger.  I followed him, and I had heard that one ought to do something at once if a man were scalded, so I seized the cream jug and poured that over his legs.

But, well as I meant, Mac was angrier than ever.  I chased him round and round, seriously afraid that my friend was crazed by his sufferings.

“Are ye no better the noo, Mac?” I asked.

That was just as our landlady and her daughter came in.  I’m afraid they heard language from Mac not fit for any woman’s ears, but ye’ll admit the man was not wi’oot provocation!

“Better?” he shouted.  “Ye muckle fool, you—­you’ve ruined a brand new pair of trousies cost me fifteen and six!”

It was amusing, but it had its serious side.  We had no selections on the violin at that night’s concert, nor for several nights after, for Mac’s finger was badly swollen, and he could not use it.  And for a long time I could make him as red as a beet and as angry as I pleased by just whispering in his ear, in the innocentest way:  “Hoo’s yer pinkie the noo, Mac?”

It was at Creetown, our next stopping place, that we had an adventure that micht weel ha’ had serious results.  We had a Sunday to spend, and decided to stay there and see some of the Galloway moorlands, of which we had all heard wondrous tales.  And after our concert we were introduced to a man who asked us if we’d no like a little fun on the Sawbath nicht.  It sounded harmless, as he put it so, and we thocht, syne it was to be on the Sunday, it could no be so verra boisterous.  So we accepted his invitation gladly.

Next evening then, in the gloamin’, he turned up at our lodgings, wi’ two dogs at his heel, a greyhound and a lurcher—­a lurcher is a coursing dog, a cross between a collie and a greyhound.

He wore dark clothes and a slouch hat.  But, noo that I gied him a closer look, I saw a shifty look in his een that I didna like.  He was a braw, big man, and fine looking enough, save for that look in his een.  But it was too late to back oot then, so we went along.

I liked well enow to hear him talk.  He knew his country, and spoke intelligently and well of the beauties of Galloway.  Truly the scenery was superb.  The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful.

But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the sun and the licht were clean gone awa’, and the darkness was closing down fast aboot us.  We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke the stillness.  Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly as ghosts in the heather.