“It is well that the prize should go to different localities, for in that way its sphere of usefulness is extended,” remarked pompous Mr. Gloag, who could be impartial, as there was no candidate from Noran Side.  He was a minister much in request for church soirees, where he amused the congregations so greatly with personal anecdote about himself that they never thought much of him afterwards.  There is one such minister in every presbytery.

“And to have carried the Hugh Blackadder seven times running is surely enough for any one locality, even though it be Glenquharity,” said Mr. Lorrimer, preparing for defeat.

“There’s consolation for you, sir,” said Mr. Cathro, sarcastically, to his rival, who tried to take snuff in sheer bravado, but let it slip through his fingers, and after that, until the two hours were up, the talk was chiefly of how Tommy would get on at Aberdeen.  But it was confined to the four ministers and one dominie.  Mr. Ogilvy still hovered about the door of communication, and his face fell more and more, making Mr. Dishart quite unhappy.

“I’m an old fool,” the Dominie admitted, “but I can’t help being cast down.  The fact is that—­I have only heard the scrape of one pen for nearly an hour.”

“Poor Lauchlan!” exclaimed Mr. Cathro, rubbing his hands gleefully, and indeed it was such a shameless exhibition that the Auld Licht minister said reproachfully, “You forget yourself, Mr. Cathro, let us not be unseemly exalted in the hour of our triumph.”

Then Mr. Cathro sat upon his hands as the best way of keeping them apart, but the moment Mr. Dishart’s back presented itself, he winked at Mr. Ogilvy.  He winked a good deal more presently.  For after all—­how to tell it!  Tommy was ignominiously beaten, making such a beggarly show that the judges thought it unnecessary to take the essays home with them for leisurely consideration before pronouncing Mr. Lauchlan McLauchlan winner.  There was quite a commotion in the school-room.  At the end of the allotted time the two competitors had been told to hand in their essays, and how Mr. McLauchlan was sniggering is not worth recording, so dumfounded, confused, and raging was Tommy.  He clung to his papers, crying fiercely that the two hours could not be up yet, and Lauchlan having tried to keep the laugh in too long it exploded in his mouth, whereupon, said he, with a guffaw, “He hasna written a word for near an hour!”

“What!  It was you I heard!” cried Mr. Ogilvy gleaming, while the unhappy Cathro tore the essay from Tommy’s hands.  Essay!  It was no more an essay than a twig is a tree, for the gowk had stuck in the middle of his second page.  Yes, stuck is the right expression, as his chagrined teacher had to admit when the boy was cross-examined.  He had not been “up to some of his tricks,” he had stuck, and his explanations, as you will admit, merely emphasized his incapacity.

He had brought himself to public scorn for lack of a word.  What word? they asked testily, but even now he could not tell.  He had wanted a Scotch word that would signify how many people were in church, and it was on the tip of his tongue but would come no farther.  Puckle was nearly the word, but it did not mean so many people as he meant.  The hour had gone by just like winking; he had forgotten all about time while searching his mind for the word.