And even
as they came abreast of that thick clump of stunted firs, up to M'Fadyen
rode the servant, pointing towards the trees, and saying: "This is our
way. Come ye wi' me."
There were few roads--such as they were--in the south of Scotland with
which M'Fadyen's business as a drover had not made him familiar, and
naturally he refused now to leave a track which he knew to be the right
one. Whereupon the servant up with his "long-gun" and struck him heavily
over the head with the butt; and as M'Fadyen strove to defend himself
and to retaliate, up rode the master, clapped a pistol to his breast,
and forced him to go with them behind the clump of trees. The last
M'Fadyen saw of his pleasant escort was the two knaves cantering over
the heath, bearing with them his cloak-bag containing his L150.
A great fuss was made over this robbery, and the Privy Council took the
matter up. The chief robber was undoubtedly an officer, said M'Fadyen,
and besides the large wart over his eye, there were other marks which
made him noticeable--for example, "the little finger of his left hand
bowed towards his loof." Notwithstanding these tell-tale marks, neither
robber was ever found; M'Fadyen and his hard-earned L150 had parted
company for ever.
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