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 cases, and pictures of
Captain Barclay of Urie walking to London and Mr. Ramsay of Barnton
winning a horse-race, and the three-volume edition of the Waverley
Novels with many volumes missing, and indeed all those things which
an inn should have. Also there used to be--there may still be-
sound vintage claret in the cellars. The Black Bull expects its
guests to arrive in every stage of dishevelment, and Dickson was
received by a cordial landlord, who offered dry garments as a matter