Mr. Punch in the Highlands Part 12

[_The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up a male and a female pa.s.senger, who occupy the seats immediately behind the Surly Pa.s.senger._

_The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion)._ There's dear old Mrs. Macfarlane, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about the Scotch--they _are_ warm-hearted!

[_She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object._

_Her Companion. That_ ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden _you_'re waving to. _She's_ keeping indoors--and shows her sense too.

_The Female P. (disgusted)._ Well, I _do_ think after our being at the farm a fortnight and all, she _might_----But that's Scotch all _over_, that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything _they_ care----!

_The Surly P._ I don't know whether you are aware of it, ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is _most_ unpleasant!

_The Female P._ I'm sorry to hear it, sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down _my_ back, and _I_ don't complain.

_The Surly P._ I _do_, ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.

_A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely)._ On the contrary, sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.

_A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation)._ What fish do you catch in that river there?

_The Driver (with an effort)._ There'll be troots, an', maybe, a pairrch or two.

_The Chatty P._ Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?

_Driver (cautiously)._ Aye, it would be that.

_Chatty P._ Only considerably bigger, of course.

_Driver (evasively)._ Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.

_Chatty P._ But bigger than goldfish.

_Driver (more confidently)._ Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.

_Chatty P. (persistently)._ You've seen goldfish--know what they're like, eh?

_Driver (placidly)._ I canna say I do.

[_They pa.s.s a shooting party with beaters._

_Chatty P. (as before)._ What are they going to shoot?

_Driver._ They'll jist be going up to the h.e.l.ls for a bet grouse drivin'.

_A Lady P._ I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they begin firing at the b.u.t.ts. I know they _have_ b.u.t.ts up on the moor, because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man throwing grain for them. Would those be _grouse_?

_Driver._ Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, mem; they'll jist be phaysants.

_The Lady P._ Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It _does_ seem so cruel to kill them!

_Her Comp._ Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.

_The Lady P._ Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally different thing.

_The Chatty P._ What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?

_Driver._ Yon h.e.l.l? I'm no minding its name.

_The Surly P._ You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of interests on the route, I must say.

_Driver (modestly)._ There'll be them on the corch that know as much aboot it as myself. (_After a pause--to vindicate his character as a cicerone._) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over yonder?

_The Surly P._ No, I didn't.

_Driver._ Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.

[_He relapses into a contented silence._

_Chatty P._ Anything remarkable about the building?

_Driver._ It was no the building that's remairkable. (_After a severe struggle with his own reticence._) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there _Roderick Dhu_ fought _Fitz-James_ after convoying him that far on his way.

[_The Surly Pa.s.senger snorts as though he didn't consider this information._

_The Lady P. (who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake").

Fitz-James who?_

_Her Comp._ I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's his name on the side of this one.

_The Lady P._ And I saw _Roderick Dhu's_ on another coach. I _thought_ it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the _rival_ proprietor, I suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.

_The Driver (to the Surly Pa.s.senger, with another outburst of communicativeness)._ Yon stoan is called "Sawmson's Putting Stoan." He hurrled it up to the tope of the h.e.l.l, whaur it's bided ever sence.

[_The Surly Pa.s.senger receives this information with an incredulous grunt._

_The Lady P._ What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley, some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!

_The Driver._ That's the Collander Hydropawthec, mem; burrnt doon two or three years back.

_The Lady P. (with a sense of the irony of events)._ _Burnt_ down! A Hydropathic! Fancy!

_Male P. (as they enter Callander and pa.s.s a trim villa)._ There, _that's_ Mr. Figgis's place.

_His Comp._ What--_that_? Why, it's quite a _bee-yutiful_ place, with green venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything!

Fancy all that belonging to _him!_ It's well to be a grocer--in _these_ parts, seemingly!

_Male P._ Ah, _we_ ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be better than being in the Caledonian Road!

[_They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the caprices of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia and the Caledonian Road respectively._