came into a bay blocked with islands and saw a clean little town
sitting on the hills and the smoke of a railway engine.

I went ashore and purchased a better brand of hat in a tweed
store. Then I made a bee-line for the post office, and asked for
telegrams. One was given to me, and as I opened it I saw Gresson
at my elbow.

It read thus:

_Brand, Post office, Oban. Page 117, paragraph 3. _Ochterlony.

I passed it to Gresson with a rueful face.

'There's a piece of foolishness,' I said. 'I've got a cousin who's a
Presbyterian minister up in Ross-shire, and before I knew about
this passport humbug I wrote to him and offered to pay him a visit.
I told him to wire me here if it was convenient, and the old idiot
has sent me the wrong telegram. This was likely as not meant for
some other brother parson, who's got my message instead.'

'What's the guy's name?' Gresson asked curiously, peering at
the signature.

'Ochterlony. David Ochterlony. He's a great swell at writing
books, but he's no earthly use at handling the telegraph. However,
it don't signify, seeing I'm not going near him.' I crumpled up the
pink form and tossed it on the floor. Gresson and I walked to the
_Tobermory together.