the fact that he was in the grocery line. There
followed a well-informed and most technical conversation. He was drawn
to speak of the United Supply Stores, Limited, of their prospects and
of their predecessor, Mr. McCunn, whom he knew well by repute but had
never met. "Yon's the clever one." he observed. "I've always said
there's no longer head in the city of Glasgow than McCunn. An
old-fashioned firm, but it has aye managed to keep up with the times.
He's just retired, they tell me, and in my opinion it's a big loss to
the provision trade...." Dickson's heart glowed within him. Here was
Romance; to be praised incognito; to enter a casual inn and find that
fame had preceded him. He warmed to the bagman, insisted on giving him
a liqueur and a cigar, and finally revealed himself. "I'm Dickson
McCunn," he said, "taking a bit holiday. If there's anything I can do
for you when I get back, just let me know." With mutual esteem they
parted.

He had need of all his good spirits, for he emerged into an unrelenting
drizzle. The environs of Kilchrist are at the best unlovely, and in
the wet they were as melancholy as a graveyard. But the encounter with
the bagman had worked wonders with Dickson, and he strode lustily into
the weather, his waterproof collar buttoned round his chin. The road
climbed to a bare moor, where lagoons had formed in the ruts, and the
mist showed on each side only a yard or two of soaking heather. Soon
he was wet; presently every part of him--boots, body, and pack--was one
vast sponge. The waterproof was not water-proof, and the rain
penetrated to his most intimate garments. Little he cared. He felt
lighter, younger, than on the idyllic previous day. He enjoyed the
buffets of the storm, and one wet mile succeeded another to the
accompaniment of Dickson's shouts and laughter. There was no one
abroad that afternoon, so he could talk aloud to himself and repeat his
favourite poems. About five in the evening there presented himself at
the Black Bull Inn at Kirkmichael a soaked, disreputable, but most
cheerful traveller.

Now the Black Bull at Kirkmichael is one of the few very good inns left
in the world. It is an old place and an hospitable, for it has been
for generations a haunt of anglers, who above all other men understand
comfort. There are always bright fires there, and hot water, and old
soft leather armchairs, and an aroma of good food and good tobacco, and
giant trout in glass c