A VERY CAUTIOUS SCOT. 321 



would be, he somewhat astonished me by the follow- 

 ing curious answer: "I ken weel what I would do 

 it for mysel', but I'm no going to tell ye." 



We had met many a cautious Scot before, but 

 a frank avowal of our business invariably secured 

 his best advice and kindly assistance. This man's 

 caution, however, was unconquerable, so we left 

 him and went into a crofter's hut not far away, 

 and watched a woman weaving Harris tweed. The 

 room was chock-full of smoke, and we came out of 

 it with smarting eyes and the aroma of peat reek 

 strong upon our garments. 



In returning to the hotel we met a man and 

 his wife leaving Tarbert Harris. The latter had a 

 bonnet on, which, for downright warmth of colour, 

 would have shamed a Hyde Park geranium bed in 

 July, and her husband, a little squat man with dark 

 twinkling eyes, was carrying her boots, tied by the 

 laces round his neck and dangling on his broad 

 breast like tokens of distinction. 



We hunted for half a day after birds' nests 

 amongst the dreary waste of grey rocks on either 

 hand of Tarbert Harris, but found far more empty 

 whisky bottles than birds' eggs. 



When we got back to Oban we hired a boatman 

 to take us out to some small rocky islands in the 

 Firth of Lome. The day turned out to be dead 

 calm, with not a ripple on the sea and an almost 

 tropical sun blazing overhead. We helped Donald 

 to pull his great lumbering sailing craft, which was 

 three times too large and heavy for the weather 

 and the occasion, out to the islands, and when we 

 landed on the one he judged best for our purpose 

 we certainly found it rich in bird-life. After we 

 had clambered all over the place and photographed 

 several nests, we sat down to lunch, half dead with 



