rs. He pictured them as philosophic
vagabonds, full of quaint turns of speech, unconscious Borrovians. With
these samples his disillusionment was speedy. The party was made up of
a ferret-faced man with a red nose, a draggle-tailed woman, and a child
in a crazy perambulator. Their conversation was one-sided, for it
immediately resolved itself into a whining chronicle of misfortunes and
petitions for relief. It cost him half a crown to be rid of them.

The road was alive with tramps that day. The next one did the
accosting. Hailing Mr. McCunn as "Guv'nor," he asked to be told the
way to Manchester. The objective seemed so enterprising that Dickson
was impelled to ask questions, and heard, in what appeared to be in the
accents of the Colonies, the tale of a career of unvarying calamity.
There was nothing merry or philosophic about this adventurer. Nay,
there was something menacing. He eyed his companion's waterproof
covetously, and declared that he had had one like it which had been
stolen from him the day before. Had the place been lonely he might
have contemplated highway robbery, but they were at the entrance to a
village, and the sight of a public-house awoke his thirst. Dickson
parted with him at the cost of sixpence for a drink.

He had no more company that morning except an aged stone-breaker whom
he convoyed for half a mile. The stone-breaker also was soured with
the world. He walked with a limp, which, he said, was due to an
accident years before, when he had been run into by "ane of thae damned
velocipeeds." The word revived in Dickson memories of his youth, and
he was prepared to be friendly. But the ancient would have none of it.
He inquired morosely what he was after, and, on being told remarked
that he might have learned more sense. "It's a daft-like thing for an
auld man like you to be traivellin' the roads. Ye maun be ill-off for
a job." Questioned as to himself, he became, as the newspapers say,
"reticent," and having reached his bing of stones, turned rudely to his
duties. "Awa' hame wi' ye," were his parting words. "It's idle
scoondrels like you that maks wark for honest folk like me."

The morning was not a success, but the strong air had given Dickson
such an appetite that he resolved to break his rule, and, on reaching
the little town of Kilchrist, he sought luncheon at the chief hotel.
There he found that which revived his spirits. A solitary bagman shared
the meal, who revealed