Scene—In front of the Trossachs Hotel. The few passengers bound for Callander have been sitting for several minutes on the coach "Fitz-James" in pelting rain, resignedly wondering when the driver will consider them sufficiently wet to start.

The Head Boots (to the driver). There's another to come yet; he'll no be lang now. (The cause of the delay comes down the hotel steps, and surveys the vehicle and its occupants with a surly scowl.) Up with ye, sir, plenty of room on the second seats.

The Surly Passenger. And have all the umbrellas behind dripping on my hat! No, thank you, I'm going in front. (He mounts, and takes up the apron.) Here, driver, just look at this apron—it's sopping wet!

The Driver (tranquilly). Aye, I'm thinking it wull ha' got a bet domp.

The Surly P. Well, I'm not going to have this over me. Haven't you got a dry one somewhere?

The Driver. There'll be dry ones at Collander.

The Surly P. (with a snort). At Callander! Much good that is! (With crushing sarcasm.) If I'm to keep dry on this concern, it strikes me I'd better get inside the boot at once!

The Driver (with the air of a man who is making a concession). Ou aye, ye can get inside the boot if ye've a mind to it.

[The coach starts, and is presently stopped at a corner to take up a male and a female passenger, who occupy the seats immediately behind the Surly Passenger.

The Female P. (enthusiastically, to her companion). There's dear old Mrs. Macfarlane, come out to see the last of us! Look at her standing out there in the garden, all in the rain. That's what I always say about the Scotch—they are warm-hearted!

[She waves her hand in farewell to some distant object.

Her Companion. That ain't her; that's an old apple-tree in the garden you're waving to. She's keeping indoors—and shows her sense too.

The Female P. (disgusted). Well, I do think after our being at the farm a fortnight and all, she might——But that's Scotch all over, that is; get all they can out of you, and then, for anything they care——!

The Surly P. I don't know whether you are aware of it, ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is most unpleasant!

The Female P. I'm sorry to hear it, sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down my back, and I don't complain.

The Surly P. I do, ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.

A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely). On the contrary, sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.

A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation). What fish do you catch in that river there?

The Driver (with an effort). There'll be troots, an', maybe, a pairrch or two.

The Chatty P. Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?

Driver (cautiously). Aye, it would be that.

Chatty P. Only considerably bigger, of course.

Driver (evasively). Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.

Chatty P. But bigger than goldfish.

Driver (more confidently). Ou aye, they'll be begger than goldfesh.

Chatty P. (persistently). You've seen goldfish—know what they're like, eh?

Driver (placidly). I canna say I do.

[They pass a shooting party with beaters.

Chatty P. (as before). What are they going to shoot?

Driver. They'll jist be going up to the hells for a bet grouse drivin'.

A Lady P. I wonder why they carry those poles with the red and yellow flags. I suppose they're to warn tourists to keep out of range when they begin firing at the butts. I know they have butts up on the moor, because I've seen them. Just look at those birds running after that man throwing grain for them. Would those be grouse?

Driver. Ye'll no find grouse so tame as that, mem; they'll jist be phaysants.

The Lady P. Poor dear things! why, they're as tame as chickens. It does seem so cruel to kill them!

Her Comp. Well, but they kill chickens, occasionally.

The Lady P. Not with a horrid gun; and, besides, that's such a totally different thing.

The Chatty P. What do you call that mountain, driver, eh?

Driver. Yon hell? I'm no minding its name.

The Surly P. You don't seem very ready in pointing out the objects of interests on the route, I must say.

Driver (modestly). There'll be them on the corch that know as much aboot it as myself. (After a pause—to vindicate his character as a cicerone.) Did ye nottice a bit building at the end of the loch over yonder?

The Surly P. No, I didn't.

Driver. Ye might ha' seen it, had ye looked.

[He relapses into a contented silence.

Chatty P. Anything remarkable about the building?

Driver. It was no the building that's remairkable. (After a severe struggle with his own reticence.) It was jist the spoat. 'Twas there Roderick Dhu fought Fitz-James after convoying him that far on his way.

[The Surly Passenger snorts as though he didn't consider this information.

The Lady P. (who doesn't seem to be up in her "Lady of the Lake"). Fitz-James who?

Her Comp. I fancy he's the man who owns this line of coaches. There's his name on the side of this one.

The Lady P. And I saw Roderick Dhu's on another coach. I thought it sounded familiar, somehow. He must be the rival proprietor, I suppose. I wonder if they've made it up yet.

The Driver (to the Surly Passenger, with another outburst of communicativeness). Yon stoan is called "Sawmson's Putting Stoan." He hurrled it up to the tope of the hell, whaur it's bided ever sence.

[The Surly Passenger receives this information with an incredulous grunt.

The Lady P. What a magnificent old ruin that is across the valley, some ancient castle, evidently; they can't build like that nowadays!

The Driver. That's the Collander Hydropawthec, mem; burrnt doon two or three years back.

The Lady P. (with a sense of the irony of events). Burnt down! A Hydropathic! Fancy!

Male P. (as they enter Callander and pass a trim villa). There, that's Mr. Figgis's place.

His Comp. What—that? Why, it's quite a bee-yutiful place, with green venetians, and a conservatory, and a croaky lawn, and everything! Fancy all that belonging to him! It's well to be a grocer—in these parts, seemingly!

Male P. Ah, we ought to come up and start business here; it 'ud be better than being in the Caledonian Road!

[They meditate for the remainder of the journey upon the caprices of Fortune with regard to grocery profits in Caledonia and the Caledonian Road respectively.