The impressive pantomime at the bridge was in order to ascertain whether his bosom companion, Dick Little, had passed on before him.  He knew, as soon as he was within a hundred yards of the stone, that he had not passed.  Indeed, he could see him at that very moment threading his way down through the tangle of heather and bog myrtle, or, as he would have said, “gall busses opposite.”  But what of that?—­For mighty is the power of make-believe, and in Andra, repressed as he was at home, there was concentrated the very energy and power of some imaginative ancestry.  He had a full share of the quality which ran in the family, and was exceeded only by his brother Jock in New York, who had been “the biggest leer in the country side” before he emigrated to a land where at that time this quality was not specially marked among so many wielders of the long bow.  Jock, in his letters, used to frighten his mother with dark tales of his hair-breadth escapes from savages and desperadoes on the frontier, yet, strangely enough, his address remained steadily New York.

Now it is not often that a Galloway boy takes to lying; but when he does, a mere Nithsdale man has no chance with him, still less a man from the simple-minded levels of the “Shire."[Footnote:  Wigtonshire is invariably spoken of in Galloway as the Shire, Kirkcudbrightshire as the Stewardry.] But Andra Kissock always lied from the highest motives.  He elevated the saying of the thing that was not to the height of a principle.  He often lied, knowing that he would be thrashed for it—­even though he was aware that he would be rewarded for telling the truth.  He lied because he would not demean himself to tell the truth.

It need not therefore surprise us in the least that when Dick Little came across the bridge he was greeted by Andra Kissock with the information that he was in the clutches of The Avenger of Blood, who, mounted upon a mettle steed with remarkably dirty feet, curveted across the road and held the pass.  He was required to give up a “soda scone or his life.”  The bold Dick, who had caught the infection, stoutly refused to yield either.  His life was dear to him, but a soda scone considerably dearer.  He had rather be dead than hungry.

“Then die, traitor!” said Andra, throwing down his bag, all forgetful of Winsome Charteris’s precious parcel and his promises thereanent.  So these two brave champions had at one another with most surprising valour.

They were armed with wooden swords as long as themselves, which they manoeuvred with both hands in a marvellously savage manner.  When a blow did happen to get home, the dust flew out of their jackets.  But still the champions fought on.  They were in the act of finishing the quarrel by the submission of Dick in due form, when Allan Welsh, passing across the bridge on one of his pastoral visitations, came upon them suddenly.  Dick was on his knees at the time, his hands on the ground, and Andra was forcing his head determinedly down toward the surface of the king’s highway.  Meanwhile Dick was objecting in the most vigorous way.