was a pair of detachable celluloid cuffs, and there was a linen collar
and dickie. Also there was a small handcase, such as bagmen carry
on their rounds.

'That's your luggage,' said Amos with pride. 'That wee bag's full
of samples. Ye'll mind I took the precaution of measurin' ye in
Glasgow, so the things'll fit. Ye've got a new name, Mr Brand, and
I've taken a room for ye in the hotel on the strength of it. Ye're
Archibald McCaskie, and ye're travellin' for the firm o' Todd, Sons
& Brothers, of Edinburgh. Ye ken the folk? They publish wee
releegious books, that ye've bin trying to sell for Sabbath-school
prizes to the Free Kirk ministers in Skye.'

The notion amused Amos, and he relapsed into the sombre
chuckle which with him did duty for a laugh.

I put my hat and waterproof in the bag and donned the bowler
and the top-coat. They fitted fairly well. Likewise the cuffs and
collar, though here I struck a snag, for I had lost my scarf somewhere
in the Coolin, and Amos, pelican-like, had to surrender the
rusty black tie which adorned his own person. It was a queer rig,
and I felt like nothing on earth in it, but Amos was satisfied.

'Mr McCaskie, sir,' he said, 'ye're the very model of a publisher's
traveller. Ye'd better learn a few biographical details, which ye've
maybe forgotten. Ye're an Edinburgh man, but ye were some years
in London, which explains the way ye speak. Ye bide at 6, Russell
Street, off the Meadows, and ye're an elder in the Nethergate U.F.
Kirk. Have ye ony special taste ye could lead the crack on to, if
ye're engaged in conversation?'