Aweel, I staggered to my feet.  Then oot came more hares and rabbits, and after them the twa dogs in full chase.  One hit me as I was getting up and sent me rolling into the ditch full of stagnant water.

Oh, aye, it was a pleasant evening in its ending!  Mac was as scared as I by that time, and when he’d helped me from the ditch we looked aroond for our poacher host.  We were afraid to start hame alane.  He showed presently, laughing at us for two puir loons, and awfu’ well pleased with his nicht’s work.

I canna say sae muckle for the twa loons!  We were sorry looking wretches.  An’ we were awfu’ remorsefu’, too, when we minded the way we’d broken the Sawbath and a’—­for a’ we’d not known what was afoot when we set out.

But it was different in the morn!  Oh, aye—­as it sae often is!  We woke wi’ the sun streamin’ in our window.  Mac leaned on his hand and sniffed, and looked at me.

“Man, Harry,” said he, “d’ye smell what I smell?”

And I sniffed too.  Some pleasant odor came stealing up the stairs frae the kitchen.  I leaped up.

“‘Tis hare, Mac!” I cried.  “Up wi’ ye!  Wad ye be late for the breakfast that came nigh to getting us shot?”

CHAPTER VIII

Could go on and on wi’ tales of yon good days wi’ Mac.  We’d our times when we were no sae friendly, but they never lasted overnicht.  There was much philosophy in Mac.  He was a kindly man, for a’ his quick temper; I never knew a kinder.  And he taught me much that’s been usefu’ to me.  He taught me to look for the gude in a’ I saw and came in contact wi’.  There’s a bricht side to almost a’ we meet, I’ve come to ken.

It was a strange thing, the way Mac drew comic things to himsel’.  It seemed on our Galloway tour, in particular, that a’ the funny, sidesplitting happenings saved themselves up till he was aboot to help to mak’ them merrier.  I was the comedian; he was the serious artist, the great violinist.  But ye’d never ha’ thocht our work was divided sae had ye been wi’ us.

It was to me that fell one o’ the few heart-rending episodes o’ the whole tour.  Again it’s the story of a man who thocht the world owed him a living, and that his mission was but to collect it.  Why it is that men like that never see that it’ not the world that pays them, but puir individuals whom they leave worse off for knowing them, and trusting them, and seeking to help them?

I mind it was at Gatehouse-of-Fleet in Kircudbrightshire that, for once in a way, for some reason I do not bring to mind, Mac and I were separated for a nicht.  I found a lodging for the night wi’ an aged couple who had a wee cottage all covered wi’ ivy, no sae far from the Solway Firth.  I was glad o’ that; I’ve aye loved the water.