“Well, I didn’t suppose it was Balmoral, with our own coffee-coloured
salmon river roaring down to join the waters of our own loch.”

Jim lit a cigarette. “Mabel, you mustn’t think of shooting-lodges and salmon rivers and
lochs,” he said. “It’s a farm-house, rather a big one, though I’m sure
we shall find it hard enough to fit in. The salmon river you speak of is
a big burn, no more, though it appears that salmon have been caught
there. But when I saw it, it would have required as much cleverness on
the part of a salmon to fit into it as it will require on our parts to
fit into our farm-house. And the loch is a tarn.”

Mabel snatched the “Guide to Highland Shootings” out of my hand with a
rudeness that even a sister should not show her elder brother, and
pointed a withering finger at her husband. “‘Achnaleish,’” she declaimed, “‘is situated in one of the grandest and
most remote parts of Sutherlandshire. To be let from August 12 till the
end of October, the lodge with shooting and fishing belonging. Proprietor supplies two keepers, fishing-gillie, boat on loch, and dogs. Tenant should secure about 500 head of grouse and 500 head of mixed
game, including partridge, black-game, woodcock, snipe, roe deer; also
rabbits in very large number, especially by ferreting. Large baskets of
brown trout can be taken from the loch, and whenever the water is high
sea-trout and occasional salmon. Lodge contains’--I can’t go on; it’s
too hot, and you know the rest. Rent only £350!”

Jim listened patiently. “Well?” he said. “What then?”

Mabel rose with dignity. “It _is_ a shooting-lodge with a salmon river and a loch, just as I have
said. Come, Madge, let’s go out. It is too hot to sit in the house.”

“You’ll be calling Buxton ‘the major-domo’ next,” remarked Jim, as his
wife passed him. I had picked up the “Guide to Highland Shootings” again which my sister
had so unceremoniously plucked from me, and idly compared the rent and
attractions of Achnaleish with other places that were to let. “Seems cheap, too,” I said. “Why, here’s another place, just the same
sort of size and bag, for which they ask £500; here’s another at £550.”

Jim helped himself to coffee. “Yes, it does seem cheap,” he said. “But, of course, it’s very remote:
it took me a good three hours from Lairg, and I don’t suppose I was
driving very noticeably below the legal limit. But it’s cheap, as you
say.”

Now, Madge (who is my wife) has her prejudices. One of them--an
extremely expensive one--is that anything cheap has always some hidden
and subtle drawback, which you discover when it is too late. And the
drawback to cheap houses is drains or offices--the presence, so to
speak, of the former, and the absence of the latter. So I hazarded
these. “No, the drains are all right,” said Jim, “because I got the certificate
of the inspector, and as for offices, really I think the servants’ parts
are better than ours. No--why it’s so cheap, I can’t imagine.”

“Perhaps the bag is overstated,” I suggested. Jim again shook his head. “No, that’s the funny thing about it,” he said. “The bag, I am sure, is
understated. At least, I walked over the moor for a couple of hours, and
the whole place is simply crawling with hares. Why, you could shoot five
hundred hares alone on it.”

“Hares?” I asked. “That’s rather queer, so far up, isn’t it?”

Jim laughed. “So I thought. And the hares are queer, too; big beasts, very dark in
colour. Let’s join the others outside. Jove! what a hot night!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Even as Mabel had said, that day fortnight found us all four, the four
who had stifled and sweltered in Chelsea, flying through the cool and
invigorating winds of the North. The road was in admirable condition,
and I should not wonder if for the second time Jim’s big Napier went not
noticeably below the legal limit. The servants had gone straight up,
starting the same day as we, while we had got out at Perth, motored to
Inverness, and were now, on the second day, nearing our goal. Never
have I seen so depopulated a road. I do not suppose there was a man to a
mile of it. We had left Lairg about five that afternoon, expecting to arrive at
Achnaleish by eight, but one disaster after another overtook us. Now it
was the engine, and now a tyre that delayed us, till finally we stopped
some eight miles short of our destination, to light up, for with evening
had come a huge wrack of cloud out of the West, so that we were cheated
of the clear post-sunset twilight of the North. Then on again, till,
with a little dancing of the car over a bridge, Jim said:

“That’s the bridge of our salmon river; so look out for the turning up
to the lodge. It is to the right, and only a narrow track. You can send
her along, Sefton,” he called to the chauffeur; “we shan’t meet a soul.”

I was sitting in front, finding the speed and the darkness
extraordinarily exhilarating. A bright circle of light was cast by our
lamps, fading into darkness in front, while at the sides, cut off by the
casing of the lamps, the transition into blackness was sharp and sudden. Every now and then, across this circle of illumination some wild thing
would pass: now a bird, with hurried flutter of wings when it saw the
speed of the luminous monster, would just save itself from being knocked
over; now a rabbit feeding by the side of the road would dash onto it
and then bounce back again; but more frequently it would be a hare that
sprang up from its feeding and raced in front of us. They seemed dazed
and scared by the light, unable to wheel into the darkness again, until
time and again I thought we must run over one, so narrowly, in giving a
sort of desperate sideways leap, did it miss our wheels. Then it seemed
that one started up almost from under us, and I saw, to my surprise, it
was enormous in size, and in colour apparently quite black. For some
hundred yards it raced in front of us, fascinated by the bright light
pursuing it, then, like the rest, it dashed for the darkness. But it was
too late, and with a horrid jolt we ran over it. At once Sefton slowed
down and stopped, for Jim’s rule is to go back always and make sure that
any poor run-over is dead. So, when we stopped, the chauffeur jumped
down and ran back. “What was it?” Jim asked me, as we waited. “A hare.”

Sefton came running back. “Yes, sir, quite dead,” he said. “I picked it up, sir.”

“What for?”

“Thought you might like to see it, sir. It’s the biggest hare I ever
see, and it’s quite black.”

It was immediately after this that we came to the track up to the house,
and in a few minutes we were within doors. There we found that if
“shooting-lodge” was a term unsuitable, so also was “farmhouse,” so
roomy, excellently proportioned, and well furnished was our dwelling,
while the contentment that beamed from Buxton’s face was sufficient
testimonial for the offices.