ying no attention
to his footsteps. And at last he got to following Macleod's plan of
crossing a burn, which was merely to wade through the foaming brown
water instead of looking out for big stones. By this time the letters in
his breast pocket were a mass of pulp.

"Look here, Macleod," said he, with the rain running down his face, "I
can't tell the difference between one bird and another. If I shoot a
partridge it isn't my fault."

"All right," said Macleod. "If a partridge is fool enough to be up here,
it deserves it."

Just at this moment Mr. Ogilvie suddenly threw up his hands and his gun,
as if to protect his face. An extraordinary object--a winged object,
apparently without a tail, a whirring bunch of loose gray feathers, a
creature resembling no known fowl--had been put up by one of the dogs,
and it had flown direct at Ogilvie's head. It passed him at about half a
yard's distance.

"What in all the world is that?" he cried, jumping round to have a look
at it.

"Why," said Macleod, who was roaring with laughter, "it is a baby
blackcock, just out of the shell, I should think."

A sudden noise behind him caused him to wheel round, and instinctively
he put up his gun. He took it down again.

"That is the old hen," said he; "we'll leave her to look after her
chicks. Hamish, get in the dogs, or they'll be for eating some of those
young ones. And you, Sandy, where was it you left the basket? We will go
for our splendid banquet now, Ogilvie."

That was an odd-looking party that by and by might have been seen
crouching under the lee of a stone wall with a small brook running by
their feet. They had taken down wet stones for seats; and these were
somewhat insecurely fixed on the steep bank. But neither the rain, nor
the gloom, nor the loneliness of the silent moors seemed to have damped
their spirits much.

"It really is awfully kind of you, Ogilvie," Macleod said, as he threw
half a sandwich to the old black retriever, "to take pity on a solitary
fellow like myself. You can't tell how glad I was to see you on the
bridge of the steamer. And now that you have taken all the trouble to
come to this place, and have taken your chance of our poor shooting,
this is the sort of day you get!"

"My dear fellow," said Mr. Ogilvie, who did not refuse to have his
tumbler replenished by the attentive Hamish, "it is quite the other way.
I consider myself precious lucky. I consider the shooting firstrate; and
it isn't every