坅nge it seemed next morning to find business● moving as usual, with no sounds of celebration▓, for it was the Fourth, “Indep

endence●” or “Rebellion” day, according to ●the nationality of the speaker.At noo▓n we gathered on board the Sardin●ian to receive

our “fi’ bob” and our disch●arges fr

om the Board of Trade.These l▓atter were good for the return tri▓p on the same steamer, but few b▓esides the bosses intended

to avail the▓mselves of the privilege.As for myself, I foun▓d another use for the document.One who is● moving about Europe in the garb

of a lab●orer must be ever ready to dec

lare ●his station in life.The answ●er of the American tramp that he is “just● a’ travelin’” will not pass muster acr▓oss

the water.To have called ●myself a carpenter or a teamster without corrobo▓rating testimonials would have been as fool▓ish as to have

told the truth.The● discharge from the

Sardinian, though ●issued to a cattle man, did n●ot differ materially from that of an able se●aman.My corduroy suit a

nd cloth cap ga▓ve me the appearance of a Jack● ashore.I decided to pose hence

forth as a● sailor. A boss cattleman of the Walk●erville barns who has crossed the● Atlantic scores of times Upon● arrival in Montreal I

put up at the “Stock Yar●ds Hotel” a

nd get a preliminary h▓air-cut in anticipation 7Tucking my ▓kodak into an inside coat pocket, I sol●d my bag

for the price of a ▓ticket on the night steamer to Belfast.A▓ two days’ tram

p along the high▓ways of the Emerald Isle was a pleasant “lim▓bering up” for more extended journeys to ▓come.It might have been longer but f?/p>

坥r an incessant rain that drove me▓ ba

ck to Scotland. On the afternoon● of my return to Glasgow I struck out al●ong the right bank of the Clyde

towards the● Highlands.An overladen highway led through Du●mbarton, a town of

factories, tha●t poured its waste products into ▓the sluggish river of poison, and brought me ▓at evening to Alexandria.A band was playin●g.I

joined the recreating throng and ▓stre


tched out on the village● green.What a st

range fellow is the Scotchman!● In a few short hours he runs through the ▓whole gamut of emotions, gloomy and de▓spondent when things go wrong, romping and ▓joking a mo



ment after.

The ●sun was still well above the hori▓zon when the concert ended, thou▓gh the hour of nine had already ●sounded from the church spire●. Not far beyond the town the hills die▓d away on the left and disclosed the unruf▓fled surface of Loch Lomo

nd, its western end a▓glow with the light of the drowning sun.By and● by the moon rose to cast a phos●phorescent shimmer over the Loch an●d its little wooded islands.On the next ●hillside stood a field of wheat shocks.I tu▓rned into it, giving the owner?/p>

垺痵 house a wide berth.The straw was ●fresh and clean, just the thi●ng for a soft bed.But wheat sheaths do not of▓fer substantial protection against the wi▓nds of the Scottish Highlands, and i▓t was not with a sense of having slept ●soundly that I ros

e at daybreak ●and pushed on. Two ho

urs ●

of tramping brought me to Luss, a cozy litt▓le village on the edge of the Loch.I haste●ned to the principal street in● quest of a restaurant, but the hamlet was ▓everywhere silent and asleep.Dow▓n on the beach of the Loch a lone fisherman,▓ preparing h

is tackle for the day’s labo▓r, took umbrage at my suggestion that his fellow●-townsmen were late risers. “Why ●mon, ’tis no late!” he protest●ed, “’tis no more nor five, an’ 8a bonny mo▓rnin’ it is, too.But there’s● a mist in it,” he ad

ded pes▓simistically. I glanced at● the bright morning sun and the unclouded▓ sky and set down both stateme●nts for fiction.But a clock-maker’s wind●ow down the beach confirmed t●he first, and the second proved as true befo●re the day was done.Stifl

ing my premature hung●er, I stretched o

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