We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised.  And it was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi’ the wee dogs comin’ back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a rabbit firmly in their mouths.

“Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!” I whispered.

“Aye!” he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs.

“I envy you,” he said.  “It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi’ dogs and guns.”

“And the keepers,” I suggested.

“Aye—­there’s keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!”

Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin’ on to one anither’s hands in the darkness, and feelin’ the other tremble, each guilty one o’ us?  So it was poachin’ we’d been, and never knowing it!  I saw a licht across the moor.

“What’s yon?” I asked our host, pointing to it.

“Oh, that’s a keeper’s hoose,” he answered, indifferently.  “I expect they’ll be takin’ a walk aroond verra soon, tae.”

“Eh, then,” I said, “would we no be doing well to be moving hameward?  If anyone comes this way I’ll be breaking the mile record between here and Creetown!”

The poacher laughed.

“Ay, maybe,” he said.  “But if it’s old Adam Broom comes ye’ll hae to be runnin’ faster than the charge o’ shot he’ll be peppering your troosers wi’ in the seat!”

“Eh, Harry,” said Mac, “it’s God’s blessings ye did no put on yer kilt the nicht!”

He seemed to think there was something funny in the situation, but I did not, I’m telling ye.

And suddenly a grim, black figure loomed up nearby.

“We’re pinched, for sure, Mac,” I said.

“Eh, and if we are we are,” he said, philosophically.  “What’s the fine for poaching, Harry?”

We stood clutching one anither, and waitin’ for the gun to speak.  But the poacher whispered.

“It’s all richt,” he said.  “It’s a farmer, and a gude friend o’ mine.”

So it proved.  The farmer came up and greeted us, and said he’d been having a stroll through the heather before he went to bed.  I gied him a cigar—­the last I had, too, but I was too relieved to care for that.  We walked along wi’ him, and bade him gude nicht at the end of the road that led to his steading.  But the poacher was not grateful, for he sent the dogs into one of the farmer’s corn fields as soon as he was oot of our sicht.

“There’s hares in there,” he said, “and they’re sure to come oot this gate.  You watch and nail the hares as they show.”

He went in after the dogs, and Mac got a couple of stones while I made ready to kick any animal that appeared.  Soon two hares appeared, rustling through the corn.  I kicked out.  I missed them, but I caught Mac on the shins, and at the same moment he missed with his stones but hit me instead!  We both fell doon, and thocht no mair of keeping still we were too sair hurt not to cry oot a bit and use some strong language as well, I’m fearing.  We’d forgotten, d’ye ken, that it was the Sawbath eve!