with his left arm hooked in the reins. He was an oldish man, with a
short, square figure, and a woollen comforter enveloped his throat.



CHAPTER EIGHT
The Adventures of a Bagman

'Ye're punctual to time, Mr Brand,' said the voice of Amos. 'But
losh! man, what have ye done to your breeks! And your buits?
Ye're no just very respectable in your appearance.'

I wasn't. The confounded rocks of the Coolin had left their mark
on my shoes, which moreover had not been cleaned for a week, and
the same hills had rent my jacket at the shoulders, and torn my
trousers above the right knee, and stained every part of my apparel
with peat and lichen.

I cast myself on the bank beside Amos and lit my pipe. 'Did you
get my message?' I asked.

'Ay. It's gone on by a sure hand to the destination we ken of.
Ye've managed well, Mr Brand, but I wish ye were back in London.'
He sucked at his pipe, and the shaggy brows were pulled so low as
to hide the wary eyes. Then he proceeded to think aloud.

'Ye canna go back by Mallaig. I don't just understand why, but
they're lookin' for you down that line. It's a vexatious business
when your friends, meanin' the polis, are doing their best to upset
your plans and you no able to enlighten them. I could send word to