t I have to
say has value or not. Will you read some of my lines?"

A curious sound broke from the Chieftain's lips, a sound something
between a groan and a laugh. He frowned, pursed his lips, swung his
short arms vigorously to and fro, shook his head with an air of
determined opposition, then suddenly softened into a smile.

"It's a strange world, my masters! A strange world! You never know
your luck! In the middle of my holiday, and a Scotch moor into the
bargain! I'll try Timbuctoo another year! Nothing else for it. Where
does my brain-rest come in, I want to know! You and your verses--be
plagued to the pair of you! Got some about you now, I suppose? Hand
them over, then,--the first that come to the surface--and let me get
through with it as soon as possible!"

He plumped down on the grass as he spoke, took out a large bandana
handkerchief and mopped his brow with an air of resignation, while
Ronald fumbled awkwardly in his pocket.

"I have several pencil copies. I think you can make them out. This is
the latest. A Madrigal--`To my Lady.'"

"Love-song?"

"Yes."

"Ever been in love?"

"No."

"What a pity when charming--poets--sing of things they don't understand!
Well, well, hand it over! I'll bear it as bravely as I may--"

Ron winced, and bit his lower lip. It was agony to sit by and watch the
cool, supercilious expression on the critic's face, the indifferent
flick of the fingers with which the sheet was closed and returned.

"Anything more?"

"You don't care for that one?"

"Pretty platitudes! Read them before a score of times--and somewhat
more happily expressed. If I were a poet--which I'm not, thank
goodness!--I could turn 'em out by the score. Ten shillings each,
reduction upon taking a dozen. Suitable for amateur tenors, or the
fashion-magazines. Alterations made if required... Anything else in
the lucky bag?"

"There's my note-book. They are all in there--the new ones, I mean,
written since I came up here. You can read which you please."

Ron took the precious leather book from his pocket, and handed it over
with an effort as painful as that of submitting a live nerve to the
dentist's tool. As he sat on the ground beside his critic he dug his
heels into the grass, and the knuckles of his clenched hands showed
white through the tan. The beginning had not been propitious, and he
knew well that no consideration for his feelings would seal the lips of
this most hone