afternoon of the ninth day when with thumping hearts we saw Arthur's
Seat from a dozen miles away. Our goal was in sight!

There was a reason for all this pedalling madness. Ever since the days
when we had wandered by Darby Creek, reading R.L.S. aloud to one
another, we had planned this trip to the gray metropolis of the north. A
score of sacred names had beckoned us, the haunts of the master. We knew
them better than any other syllables in the world. Heriot Row, Princes
Street, the Calton Hill, Duddingston Loch, Antigua Street, the Water of
Leith, Colinton, Swanston, the Pentland Hills--O my friends, do those
names mean to you what they did to us? Then you are one of the
brotherhood--what was to us then the sweetest brotherhood in the world!

In a quiet little hotel in Rutland Square we found decent lodging, in a
large chamber which was really the smoking room of the house. The city
was crowded with tourists on account of an expected visit of the King
and Queen; every other room in the hotel was occupied. Greatly to our
satisfaction we were known as "the smoking-room gentlemen" throughout
our stay. Our windows opened upon ranks of corridor-cars tying on the
Caledonian Railway sidings, and the clink and jar of buffers and
coupling irons were heard all night long. I seem to remember that
somewhere in his letters R.L.S. speaks of that same sound. He knew
Rutland Square well, for his boyhood friend Charles Baxter lived there.
Writing from Samoa in later years he says that one memory stands out
above all others of his youth--Rutland Square. And while that was of
course only the imaginative fervour of the moment, yet we were glad to
know that in that quiet little cul de sac behind the railway terminal we
were on ground well loved by Tusitala.

The first evening, and almost every twilight while we were in Auld