The usual chorus of hip, hips, and Sandie was glad when at last, with his friend Willie, he found himself outside the gates and able to breathe more freely.

“Well,” said Willie, “you know how friendly I feel towards you, so I’ll say nothing. Let me see,” he continued; “it is only six; you’ll just have time to go home and change, and write your letter, and be at our place at half-past seven to dinner.”

“But really——”

“Nonsense! your coming, and there is an end to it. I’ll go with you to your attic and have a cup of old Mrs. Gully’s excellent tea. I’ll read while you write and dress. I shall thus make sure of you.”

So home to Sandie’s attic went the two students, and when old Mrs. Gully heard the news, she was so joyously excited that she almost cried.

“To think,” she said, “that I should hae a real leevin’ first bursar in my attic! Eh! sirs, it’s a high, high honour. But noo for your tay, for ye maun be famished.”

. . . . . .

That evening spent at the Provost’s house was like many others, very shortsome and pleasant, and even very merry. A great cloud had rolled off the firmament of Sandie’s existence. His mental sky was clear. The future was all bright and hopeful, and he was happy. But his happiness was not permitted to last unalloyed all that evening. He had bidden his friends good-night, and Willie and he had walked up on to the Castle-gate to feast their eyes on the four long chains of light that, starting from here at right angles, go sweeping along Union Street and King Street, the houses on each side looking like mansions of marble under the stars, now so sweetly shining.

As they still stood looking and admiring, Sandie humming a song the while, their attention was attracted to a little crowd like a procession that had just rounded the corner of Market Street, and were coming onwards in their direction. They went straight away to meet it, and soon found that the centre of the crowd consisted of four policemen bearing a stretcher, on which lay a form, still in death, and covered over with a black cloth.

Willie sought explanations from some of the crowd. All they could tell him was that the body had been taken out of the harbour. It was that of a young man and supposed to be a student.

The body was taken to the station and to the dead-house.

“I think,” said Willie to a superintendent, “that I and my friend—we are both students—can identify the body, if it be a student, for either he or I know them all.”

“Well, come along, lads,” said the officer.

He led them to the gloomy room, and still more gloomy table, whereon the body lay.

With scant ceremony the officer pulled off the cloth.

Then with a stifled cry of alarm, Willie shrank back, clapping his hand to his brow.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “it is poor Herbert Grant!”

“You know him, then?”

“Oh, well, and all his history. He was a poor Highland student who came down to compete, but failed.”

“Do you know the address of his parents? It is evidently a case of suicide. Here is a letter we found on him addressed to his mother and father, but not directed. In the agony of his mind the poor boy must have forgotten that.”

“I do know their address.”

Then Willie took the letter, which was somewhat blotted from immersion and subsequent drying, and read as follows:—

Willie Munro was naturally a tender-hearted boy, and this strange last letter, with the sight of the calm dead face lying there as if Herbert but slept, so wrought upon his feelings that he threw himself into a rude chair, and, with his hands to his face, wept long and bitterly.

Even the sturdy superintendent of police was visibly affected, and tried to console the boy, but for a time he only wept the more.

He started up at last, and that suddenly too; he dashed the tears aside.

“Come, Sandie, come,” he said, and left the dead-house.

In the outer office he addressed an envelope to Herbert’s parents. The very act of doing so seemed to restore him somewhat. He bade the officer good-night more cheerfully, and with Sandie walked out into the night and the starlight.

. . . . . .

“Sandie,” said Willie next morning, “you’re going home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, certainly, to-day too.”

“Well, I think I could do with another day or two in the country. I want to get out from under the shadow of that dead-house, Sandie, away from the memory of that awful sleeping face.”

“My dear friend,” replied Sandie, “I had meant to ask you to come, though I wasn’t sure you would accept. But now I am delighted.”

. . . . . .

There were several days to be spent in the Deeside Highlands before the classes should assemble for the work of the winter, and right pleasantly were they spent now by our heroes and their friend Mackenzie. The weather was most delightful, cold, crisp, and clear, with bright starry nights and dancing aurora. The aurora is here called the Merry Dancers, and right well does it deserve the name.

Long spears of light that meet, and mix, and clash in such a way as quite to bewilder the senses. It is in, the following way Burns the poet talks about pleasures—

It was cold work fishing now, but they did spend one forenoon by a trout stream-side, and, much to his joy and pride, Willie caught no less than three handsome trout. He duly entered the fact in his note-book, and henceforward he said he thought he should be quite justified in dubbing himself a member of the gentle craft and a disciple of Walton’s.

But it was glorious weather for walking, and together they climbed some of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, the view spread out beneath them, wintry aspect though it was, being sometimes magnificent. The many streams winding out and in through snow-clad glens, and woods and wilds, the rocks and hills, the black solemn river itself, the cliffs above it, and the weird-like forests of pines—the whole formed a scene that was impressive in the extreme. “That tall sugar-loaf mountain to the east,” said Mackenzie, “some day we will climb. It towers half-a-mile above the level of the sea, and the view obtained from its summit is awe-striking and magnificent. Some day, Willie, when, as the song says,

we will climb that hill. There is a romance attached to it that few are aware of. The mountain is called Benachie, or the Hill of the Mist, and many hundreds of years ago a wild Highland chieftain had a castle or stronghold on the very summit of it. He also had a castle below here, that old ruin that you can just see peeping round the corner of the pine wood. He owned all the land you can see to the east of us here. I am sorry to tell you this chief was a bad man. His constant habit was to abduct young ladies from the country of his hereditary enemy, just beyond the Don, and convey them to his fortress on the mountain; and never were they seen again. Well, it came to pass that a wealthy laird across the water was to be married to a beautiful young lady, the daughter of the chieftain, and the chief of Benachie’s son, who was now of age, thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. So he made a raid across the Don one dark night, attacked the castle and carried off the daughter, taking her right to the stronghold on the summit of the mountain. When he heard of it, the young lady’s intended husband could not contain himself with rage. He collected a force with which he crossed the Don, and commenced laying waste the country with fire and sword. But his triumph was short-lived, for Benachie came down in force. Not only did he hurl the invader backwards into the dark rolling Don, but—oh! pitiful to relate!—he crossed the river and commenced an indiscriminate slaughter of young and old, while every cottage was fired, the chief slain, and his castle laid in ruins.[5]

“I do not tell you this story, boys, for the sake of sensation, but that you may thank Heaven in your hearts, we do not live in such dark and terrible times.”

CHAPTER III

HARD WORK AND EARNEST STRUGGLES

The money was soon forthcoming; then Mr. M‘Crae gave his son much good advice, especially as to the evils of intemperance and bad company. To this advice he, Scotsman-like, appended his blessing, and his last words to Sandie were these: “Never forget to read the Book and pray.”

Sandie’s mother and sister promised that, in a few weeks’ time, they would both come to Aberdeen and pay him a visit.

The boys had the minister’s blessing as well, and poor little Maggie May cried bitterly when parting with Sandie, and, innocent morsel that she was, held up her tear-bedewed face to be kissed.

Sandie all throughout the session never forgot dear Maggie May as he had last seen her—her eyes swollen with weeping, but beautiful withal, as she stood at the garden-gate, waving her wet handkerchief to him as long as he was in sight.

. . . . . .

John Adams was then the students’ bookseller. His shop was in the New Market, and he really gave the boys bargains of second-hand books. To him therefore went Sandie with his custom. John even went so far as to recommend him a tailor, and having ordered a good useful suit of tweed clothes, Willie and he went off to buy their gowns.

These gowns were of scarlet baize, with loose-hanging sleeves, and very broad collars of dark red silk velvet. They are much the same at the present time, but now-a-days the students wear trencher caps. Then they did not. They might array themselves in Glengarries, in broad Prince Charlies, or in Tarn o’ Shanters, just as they chose, so long as they wore the gown.

The King’s College University gown had only a plain collar, and it had no loose sleeves. The reason, it was said, why the gown was deprived of sleeves was this: the students used to fasten a stone in the end of each, and go swinging along the streets, hitting the passengers right and left in all directions.

It was also said that at one time this King’s College gown had a velvet collar, but that this was taken away on account of a crime the students committed. It seems that a certain porter played the sneak, and got many of them into serious trouble for some lark they had taken part in. They determined to punish this porter by pretending to execute him.

At the midnight hour he was taken from his bed, his eyes were bandaged, and he was led through the streets. When the bandage was removed, to the poor fellow’s horror he found himself in a room all hung with black. At one side sat judge and jury, at another stood, immovable as statues, two masked men with broad axes beside a crape-covered block. The porter was tried and at once condemned to death. He was allowed five minutes, then led trembling to the block. His head was placed thereon.

“Strike!” cried the judge.

A student struck a light blow with a wet towel across the neck.

“Now,” said the judge, “now, Mr. Porter, you can get up. You’ve had your fright, but take care how you play the sneak again. Arise!”

But the poor porter never moved.

He was dead!

Dead, from the very fear of death.

. . . . . .

Buying those gowns afforded Sandie and Willie a good deal of fun. Well, they were light-hearted, and inclined to make merry over anything. But the gowns were so ridiculously long, they came down nearly to their heels. That would never do. So they commanded the shopkeeper to dock them by a foot at least; then they were paid for and taken away.

Classes were duly opened next day, and Sandie, somewhat shame-facedly it must be confessed, walked out into the street, bearing his blushing honours on his back. Somehow he had an idea that every one was looking at him. Well, at all events he was an object of very great interest to bevies of little guttersnipe urchins, who followed him shouting, “Buttery Willie Collie, red-backed and holy.”

I don’t know at all why they should shout such doggerel at the gown students, but they do. His back also became a target for innumerable snowballs, so that on the whole he was not sorry when safe in the quad at last.

The class-rooms were seated after the fashion of the gallery of a church or theatre, the seats rising tier after tier from the floor near the windows, where stood the professor’s table, towards the roof, so that to gain their places the students had first to climb a back stair, then descend the centre stair-like passage to their seats on either side. In Sandie’s days, whatever it may be now, practical joking was in its glory. Sometimes these jokes took what Sandie considered a mean and ungentlemanly turn, as when, to his astonishment, he saw a fusillade of snowballs coming over the gallery from the back-stairs and falling on the professor’s table.

All the more unworthy of any student was such conduct, inasmuch as it was the Professor of Greek who was thus assailed, and he was a very old and nervous man.

Another day a door-mat was thrown over the gallery class-room, alighting on the table and demolishing everything; and this by men who would have been mortally offended had you told them they were not gentlemen.

Sandie soon settled down to the routine of the class-rooms, and also to his own quiet studies at home. He soon found out the truth about the lecture system, however, namely, that it is a mistake, and that an earnest student can learn more at home from books in one hour than he could from twenty lectures.

. . . . . .

Although Sandie paid three shillings and sixpence of weekly rent for his room, he had it all to himself. He could therefore study when he pleased, without fear of interruption, and his landlady was really very good and kind to him. Willie was his constant visitor, but knowing Sandie’s studious habits, made it a point never to come and see him of an evening unless specially invited. And if, when Willie invited Sandie to his house to spend the evening, he replied that he could not well spare the time, nothing more was said on the subject.

Sandie had entered on a new sphere of study that possessed great attractions for him, namely, algebra and the higher branches of mathematics.

He made a solemn resolve to pay his father back the ten pounds as soon as possible, and what with this debt and one thing or another, he found he would have enough to do to rub along.

So he determined now to take a pupil, that is, if he could find one. Surely a first bursar would be successful in a little matter like this. Well, Sandie was so after a fashion. He was engaged by a widow lady, who lived on the outskirts of the town, to teach her fat-faced pudding-headed “loon,” aged about twelve, for one hour every night for the large sum of ten shillings a week.

A more provoking pupil it would have been difficult for any one to conceive. He was his mother’s darling, a spoiled and ignorant child, who at times would positively refuse to be taught or to open a book.

Sandie lost his temper with him one night, and pulled his ears.

“Oh, don’t do that,” said his mother pleadingly.

“I will, and more,” cried Sandie determinedly. “If he will not work, I am but robbing you, and losing my own precious time besides.”

“Now, look here, Andrew: if there is any more of this, either now or any other night, I’m going to give you a jolly good belting, and to-morrow I shall bring a strap in my pocket for the purpose.” And so Sandie did, and laid it ominously on the table in the boy’s sight.

Andrew became quite a reformed character after this, and Sandie used to take him out for long rambles on Saturday afternoons, and to the church on Sundays.

. . . . . .

A rather curious fact must here be mentioned regarding Willie Munro, as it not only gives an additional insight to the lad’s character, but really has some bearing on future acts in our story.

Willie, then, had never forgotten that fiasco on the hill, when he loaded his gun by putting in the charge of shot first. He was a very sensitive boy, and sometimes since that day, in his dreams, he would hear Maggie May’s shrill peals of laughter, and see her merry mischievous face. Had Sandie alone been there, it would not have mattered so much, but to have made a fool of himself before a girl—ah! there was the rub. He felt at times that he almost hated Maggie May, though surely it was no fault of hers.

However, he made a vow that he would rectify the mistake. He told his father the whole story, and his father kindly acquiesced in his wishes. Willie paid a visit to a keeper who lived a little way up Deeside. A crack shot he was. The man was grooming a Lavereck setter when Willie reached his humble dwelling.

“Fat can I dee for ye, laddie?” said Bob Brown, meaning, “What can I do for you?”

“Oh,” said Willie, “I want you to teach me to shoot birds, so that I can go to the hill and not make a fool of myself.”

Bob looked him all over. He even tested his eye-sight and the quickness and steadiness of his hand.

“You’ll do,” he said. “How often can you come here?”

“Every afternoon, and I’m willing to pay fairly well.”

“Richt! in a month or sax weeks you ought to be as gweed (good) a shot as mysel’. Hae ye a gun?”

“No.”

“Weel, we’ll gang and buy ane the day.”

And so they did—not a very heavy one, but a breech-loader by one of the best makers.

They also bought a spring-trap to throw crystal balls into the air, to represent birds. These balls were filled with feathers, so it was easy to see when they were broken.

For the first few days Willie was awkward enough, and hardly broke a ball; then all at once he seemed, to get into the knack of the thing, and broke the balls fast enough, and without apparent aim or effort.

The lad was rejoiced beyond measure. I am really afraid he neglected his studies somewhat for this new-fangled fad of his, only he was determined to wipe out what he looked upon as a stain on his character. He practised at home every morning, as well as going to Bob’s in the afternoons.

Bob had a bit of private shooting, and now he began to take Willie out with him, and an excellent hill-man the boy proved.

“Man,” said Bob more than once, “I’m perfectly prood o’ ye. And ye’re a’ ma ain makin’ too.”

Willie now added the revolver to his armoury. Very awkward, indeed, he was at first with this weapon, but the pistol was pronounced a good one, and he soon became very precise in his shooting indeed.

Now Willie was sly.

Willie never told Sandie, his friend, what he was doing or studying. Not he. If you had asked him why he did not, he might have replied—

“Because I know a trick worth two of that. I want my revenge. I want to astonish Sandie, and Maggie May as well.”

There is a good old saying which, I must confess, has been of much service to me during life. It is this: “You never know what you can do till you try.”

I have often felt so ill, that I thought to get out of bed and begin literary work would be a sheer impossibility. Then that bold saying has come to my mind, and I have got up, and shaved myself—a terrible ordeal when one is low and sick—and had my cold bath—another terrible ordeal, even for a Scotsman, when out of form. Then I have had breakfast and begun work, and wonderful to relate, the more I wrote the better I grew. What think you of that, reader mine?

Well, in Willie’s case there was another proof of the truth of the grand old aphorism. Willie persevered and persevered, and in six weeks’ time, long before Christmas, he had been pronounced by Bob Brown a crack shot, one who could single out his bird from a covey, and bring one down with each barrel.

“I dinna think,” said Bob frankly and honestly, “I can teach you muckle mair.”

But Willie went every night to Bob Brown’s all the same.

They had two spring-traps now, and two balls were dislodged into the air at one time, and Bob rubbed his hands with delight, and laughed to see his pupil smash each ball, making the feathers fly right and left.

. . . . . .

Sandie continued hard at his studies, especially mathematics, night after night, and made considerable progress.

What a happy day that was, though, when his mother and sister Elsie came to visit him.

Not only he, but Willie himself absented themselves from classes that day, simply dropping a line to the various professors candidly owning up to the cause of their playing truant.

So Sandie escorted his dear mother, and Willie chaperoned Elsie, all over the Granite City. It was the first time Elsie had been to Aberdeen, and she was naturally much struck by the marble whiteness of the stately buildings.

The ladies were even taken into the quad to gaze upon the University at which Sandie had achieved such signal success.

Then, when tired of wandering through the streets and seeing the lions of the place, Willie—wilful Willie, as Sandie called him—insisted upon their all dining together in the M‘Gregor Hotel.

“It is only four o’clock,” he said, “and you go away at six. Well, I would have asked you to my house, but we will be ever so much more free and easy here.”

“I shall pay,” said Sandie.

“Indeed, indeed you won’t.”

“Oh, but I must.”

“Well, if you do, I shan’t come out with you to Kilbuie to spend the Christmas week. So there!”

That settled it.

Not only did Willie pay, but he ordered the dinner, and it was one just suited to the requirements of a bright clear winter’s day. No French names either. 1. Delicious Scotch barley-broth. 2. Fresh salmon from the Dee, caught the day before, not Norwegian salmon that had lain dead in ice for three weeks, till all taste and flavour had fled to the moon or elsewhere. 3. A juicy joint of roast-beef with snow-white mashed potatoes and cauliflower. 4. Pudding and custard. 5. Cheese, oat-cakes, fresh butter, and salad. For wine, although the ladies had their option, they chose good table-ale, and the boys joined them. When about half-past five tea was brought, I think both the mother and Elsie were very happy; at any rate, they both confessed that they had never in their lives spent a more pleasant or happy day.

“The time is getting short now,” said Mrs. M‘Crae, “and I want to make sure of one thing.”

“And that is?” asked Willie.

“Sure o’ your promise to come out at Christmas when Sandie comes.”

“I promise, mother,” said Willie.

“You both look rather pale. I’m sure you’ve both been studying very hard.”

Willie smiled inwardly, but made no reply.

They sauntered down to the station in good time, and just as they were going away, and Elsie extended her hand to Willie, he gallantly pressed it to his lips.

As he raised his cap, shy eyes met his, and a smiling but blushing face.

The whistle shrieked.

The train was gone.

CHAPTER IV

A STRANGE DUEL—BAD BOYS’ PRANKS

Some of the greatest treats Sandie enjoyed were his invitations out to breakfast with his professors, some even whose classes he was not yet attending inviting him. He could hardly have told you which of these he liked best to breakfast with. There was old Dr. Brown, for example, who filled the Greek chair, a very ugly but highly intellectual man, who spoke like a Northumbrian, with a burr or rattle in the throat, and whom, as he preferred the Doric dialect, the students had nicknamed “The Dorian.” The Dorian, on ordinary days, used to finish his breakfast on the street, and might be met in short cuts any morning eating a bap.[6] But on days when he had students to breakfast, he was all there indeed, and up betimes. He himself seemed blessed with the appetite of a Highland hunter, and he made the students eat consumedly. But it was also a feast of reason and flow of soul, and the number of racy anecdotes he told without apparent effort during the breakfast-hour was marvellous; so too was the number of buttered baps he got down.

Then there was Dr. Maclure, Professor of Humanity, that is, he filled the Latin chair. A little man, perky, proud, and fat. He was an Englishman, but a great admirer of Burns, whom he was constantly quoting. The students called him “Cockie Maclure,” but it is to be hoped he did not know this. However, breakfast with him, although not such a heavy meal as that with the Dorian, was always most enjoyable.

Sandie used to think he would give a good deal could he only speak English with so charming an accent.

Then there was poor Maxwell, so well known in the scientific world—brown haired, handsome, thoughtful, and wise; he always had some scientific marvel to tell his students about during breakfast. He was always smiling, but never laughed a deal. I suppose he had an idea that strong tea was not good for young fellows, for he invariably filled the cup half up with rich delicious cream before pouring in the beverage.

Poor Maxwell! he is dead and gone, and great loss his death has been to the world.

. . . . . .

Would my young reader fight a duel if called out? I should not advise him to, though I myself have once or twice been foolish enough to appear on the field and duly take my stand to shoot and be shot at.

But in Sandie’s days duelling was not entirely unknown among the students. One King’s College student sent his bullet through the left arm of his opponent. Honour was declared to be satisfied after this, as well it might have been.

Well, among Sandie’s intimate friends was a tall, pale-faced, aristocratic-looking English lad named Coleman; a student our hero also knew was Tom Brierly, a far more robust and daring-looking youth—a scapegrace, I fear. At the University in the far North quarrels generate very simply sometimes. For example, there lived with her mother in Upper Kirkgate a girl of about seventeen. Sweet seventeen it was in her case, for she was very beautiful, with eyes of darkest hazel, eyelashes that swept her cheeks, and a complexion like strawberries and cream. Her mother and she made and sold tuppenny pies. They did a good trade all day, but towards evening and up till eleven o’clock that trade became a roaring one.

Well, Tom Brierly fell in love, or pretended to, with bonnie Mary Mayne, and used to appear upon the festive scene every evening and eat pies, till one could not have helped wondering how he could contain so many. He also got Mary to teach him how to make them, and after he became an adept he used to stand by her side and turn them out by the dozen. For Tom was not a bit shy. On Sunday evenings the pair used to go to church together if it rained, or out for a long walk if the weather was fine. In fact, they were looked upon by all as sweethearts, and it was even rumoured that Tom, who, by the way, was a clergyman’s son, was going to marry Mary soon, and take up a pie-shop on his own account, which of course would be doing infinite honour to his reverend daddie.

However, to make a long story short, who should Tom find one evening when he paid his usual visit, but tall young Coleman, leaning over the counter with a sickly smile on his face as he breathed sweet nothings and the flavour of caramels in bonnie Mary’s face.

Tom wasn’t a man of many words, so he simplified matters and brought them to an abrupt conclusion by seizing Coleman by his garments above and below, and flinging him straight into the street. Coleman gathered himself up.

“I cannot fight you with fists,” he said in a voice as like thunder as a hen’s might be, “but a friend of mine shall call on you within an hour.”

And sure enough a friend did.

Tom was laughing and joking with Mary, and turning out pie after pie with extraordinary agility.

He hardly looked up.

“I won’t disappoint you,” he said; “keep your mind easy. I choose pistols. My friend Smith, of 36 Union Terrace, will provide them. Yes, seven o’clock, or say 7.30. We’d hardly see before. Go now and look Smith up.”

And Tom coolly proceeded to turn out another pie. But poor Mary had turned pale.

“You’re not going to fight—with—guns—are you, and all about me?”

“Keep your mind easy, Mary dear,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we shall hurt each other. And listen, Mary, I’ve made up my mind not to fire at his head or body. I might let his little life out, you know. I mean to aim at those thin legs of his.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” mourned Mary, wringing her hands. “And where,” she asked innocently, “will you fecht?”

“Oh,” replied Tom, as he rolled out a piece of paste, “there is only one place. Smith knows it well, because I had a pugilistic encounter there with a butcher. Round at the seaside of the Broad Hill. There won’t be a soul there at that time of the morning. Pass the gravy, Mary.”

. . . . . .

It was some time past eleven o’clock. At the police-station near the Tolbooth, a serjeant and one or two burly night-watchmen sat before a roaring fire talking and laughing, when there entered a very pretty dark-eyed maiden, with a shawl about her head. She appeared to be in very great grief and trouble. But after she had told her story, she seemed comforted, because in very kind tones the sergeant had replied—

“You keep your mind easy, my dear. Just go home and go to bed. We’ll make it all right. Shall one of my men see you safe home?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I’ll soon run home.”

. . . . . .

Tom and his second, Smith, were up and dressed even before the stars, that had been shining so brightly all night, had commenced to pale before the coming of day. Smith, after warming coffee, busied himself in getting the irons ready.

He was a brave, smart little fellow, Smith, and the idea of aiming at Coleman’s thin legs tickled him very much, and made him laugh as he cleaned the pistols.

“His thin legs, eh?” he said. “Well, friend Tom, you’ll be a smart shot if you hit ’em. Why, it will be like firing at a couple of raspberry canes.”

A little after seven both young men started for the links and Broad Hill.

They got right up over the top of the hill, and having gained the summit, looked beneath them. Yes, Coleman and his second were already there, although the time was not yet up.

What a heavenly morning it was too! The sun was not yet up, but red and crimson and golden clouds flecked all the eastern sky, and were reflected from the rolling waves till all the ocean seemed ablaze. Only on the yellow sands were the long lines of snow-white foam, where the seas broke lazily upon the beach.

“What a pity,” said Tom with a sigh, “to have to face so deadly an encounter on a morning like this!”

“I daresay,” said Smith, “if you were to apolo——”

He never got any further, Tom stopped him with a look.

Five minutes after this, Tom and his opponent had shaken hands, and stood facing each other at twelve paces waiting for the words, “One, two, three, fire!” when suddenly from behind a sandhill at no great distance started two burly policemen. They appeared to spring from the very earth.

“Halt!” That was the stentorian word of command they gave.

“Boys!” cried Smith, “there has been a magpie about. Policemen,” he added, “did you cry ‘halt’?”

“We cried ‘Halt!’”

“Then I cry something else, ‘Bolt!’”

He suited his own actions to the word, and before either of those policemen could say “Jack-knife,” the race for liberty had commenced.

All honour to the bobbies; they did give chase, but as well might a tortoise try to catch a weasel. They were speedily distanced and left breathless far behind.

The four students went on to Balgownie Bridge, then crossed country to Woodside, when, coming to a farm, they succeeded in breakfasting on curds and cream, oatcakes, fresh butter, and new-laid eggs.

Both seconds declared that, under the circumstances, honour should be deemed satisfied. Then both principals shook hand, each, declaring himself in the wrong. Thus was a friendship established between Tom Brierly and Coleman, and—and—and they lived happy ever afterwards. But this is the true story of an Aberdeen University duel.

They never heard another word from the police-office about the escapade, so rightly judged that the magistrates had forgiven them.

. . . . . .

My description of University life in the Granite City during Sandie’s curriculum would be incomplete were I to say nothing of what I may call the bad boys of the College. Of course, you find these everywhere, though in after life they are sure to look back with some degree of sorrow on the days that are gone never to return.

Tom Brierly was one of these. Sandie tried hard to reform him, but I fear with little success.

Sandie more than once, thinking that example was better than precept, accompanied Tom to Mother Robertson’s, an inn in the Guestrow, much frequented by the students. There were more merry faces round the tables of the coffee-room than there had any right to be; there were more steaming tumblers of toddy, and there would be more headaches in the morning. Sandie drank nothing but stone bottles of ginger-beer.

“How can you be so merry on that?” cried Tom.

“It’s all custom,” said Sandie. “I feel very happy and merry on this, and I won’t have the ghost of a heavy head in the morning.”

So Sandie sat with them, and he told stories that made every one laugh, and he sang songs that made some of them cry; but at ten o’clock he arose, and, in spite of their importunities, bade all good-night and walked straight home to his attic.

The principal practical jokes performed at night by the students in Sandie’s day were extinguishing gas lamps, wrenching off knockers with the twist of a strong stick, and pulling out bell-handles.

The night-watchmen, as they were called, were certainly a body of grand men. Their physique left nothing to be desired. But then they were not active.

They were called “Charlies,” just as the day-policemen were denominated “Bobbies.”

These sturdy fellows were dressed in strong broadcloth fear-nothing coats, that reached down to their heels; they wore broad Tam o’ Shanter bonnets, and were armed with oaken cudgels big enough to have felled an ox.

At nine o’clock each evening they were marshalled two deep in front of the watchhouse door. The officer gave the words of command in the broadest of Scotch.

“Are ye a’ richt there, Jamie?” This to the sergeant.

“A’ richt, sir,” Jamie would reply.

“Weel, richt fut foremaist. Quick mairch! awa’ ye gang.”

And away they went, filing off here and there at the corners of streets to take up their several beats.

But the bad boy students were the bane of those poor fellows’ lives. There was no saying when one or two would turn up.

They would see lamp after lamp extinguished right ahead of them, sometimes a whole street placed in darkness, and yet be powerless to give chase to the light-footed lads.

Or they would hear sounds like shots fired in the quiet streets, bang! bang! bang! here and there, and know that metal knockers were being broken, but knowing also that they might as well try to catch a will-o’-the-wisp as one of the perpetrators.

It must be admitted that playing such practical jokes as these is poor fun, and the only thing to be said for the students is, that they never paused to think.

. . . . . .

Sandie still stuck to his little pupil, though he confessed more than once to Willie that the work was irksome in the extreme.

Our hero was no gourmand. And yet there were many Highland students at the University, who lived on far poorer fare than did Sandie, as we shall see as the story goes on.

Sandie had porridge and milk for breakfast, nothing else, but plenty of that. For dinner he usually had sheep’s-head broth of barley and vegetables, with potatoes and perhaps kail as auxiliaries. He allowed himself tea in the afternoon, and for supper a large dish of stiff pease-meal brose with plenty of creamy milk.

When fresh herrings could be got—but they were not now in season—he treated himself to a few of these.

This was plain, but it was also wholesome fare.

Herring and sand cadgers are quite a feature of the Granite City. What the poor people do with all the fine sea-sand it would be difficult to imagine. But the Aberdonians are a cleanly people, the very show of their white granite walls appears to suggest cleanliness, and the women folks are constantly seen scouring down their stairs and passages.

The sand is hawked in donkey-carts, and the boy hawkers’ are invariably all in rags and tatters.

“Twa buckets o’ fine sea-sand for three bawbees, and I’ll carry them upstairs for a cauld tattie or a bit o’ cake for the cuddy.”

I may state at once that the cuddy never gets the piece of cake.

The herring-cadgers are a cut above the sand-laddies.

In going to classes one day shortly before Christmas, Sandie was witness to a rather humorous episode. Let me premise that the streets were covered with mud and slime.

Well, a large cart-load of hay from the country had just met and passed a cadger’s cart laden with fresh herrings. This was an excellent opportunity to get a wisp of hay, thought the herring-man, so he was speedily helping himself to an armful. But Geordie spied him, and off he went to the cart and quite filled his arms with herrings.

“Faur (where) are ye gaun wi’ my herrin’?” cried the cadger aghast.

“Faur are ye gaun wi’ my hay?” answered Geordie.

“There’s you dirty hay,” shouted the cadger, throwing it on the ground.

“And there’s your dirty herrings,” cried Geordie, throwing the fish in the mud, which certainly would not improve either their flavour or quality.

But Geordie had the best of it.

CHAPTER V

AMONG THE WHITE HARES—HOGMANAY NIGHT

Quickly enough sped the train, but under the circumstances it is no wonder Sandie thought it slow. His head is out through the window long before he nears the station. Yes, he can see Elsie with the dogcart and Lord Raglan, and he waves his handkerchief to her, and she smilingly waves her hand in return, for Elsie and Sandie are all in all to each other.

Sandie is in such a hurry that he almost forgets to give up his ticket. He rushes off the little platform, and next moment is almost capsized by Tyro himself, who is perfectly wild in his demonstrations of joy and undying love.

“Oh,” he seems to tell Sandie, “I thought I would never, never see you more; I thought you were dead and away, and now, what can I do to allay my feelings?”

And in order to do so the poor dog must commence flying round and round in a circle, so quickly that his shape is barely distinguishable. Having fondly embraced his sister, and asked after his father and mother, and while Willie and she are shaking hands, Sandie takes Raglan’s head in his arms to cuddle. Then he kisses his soft snout, and the horse whinnies a welcome.

Sandie next takes a paper parcel from his ulster and opens it, extracting therefrom great slabs of white oat-cake.

“Lord Raglan,” he cries, “I didn’t forget you.”

Raglan whinnies once more, and probably enjoys that cake far more than he has enjoyed anything for many a day.

Tyro also has a share. Then all wheel happily home to the farm of old Kilbuie.

. . . . . .

“I shan’t touch a classic or open a book on mathematics until we return to college.” That is what Sandie told Willie next morning at breakfast.

“Well, now, I do call that wise,” replied Willie; “one doesn’t expect much wisdom from a genius—one doesn’t really, but for once in a way——”

“Thank you,” said Sandie.

“And you’ll eat all you can, laddie,” quoth Sandie’s mother, “and drink plenty o’ milk, for indeed you’re as white as a ghost.”

“Mother dear,” replied Sandie, “I’ll do all you tell me, even to the drinking of milk, and right glad I am to have the chance of obeying you once again.”

“O mother and Siss,” he added, with something akin to exultation, “I used often and often to dream about this good old-fashioned fireside, and then waken all alone in my attic so cold and dismal!”

. . . . . .

Of course, one of the first visits the boys made was to the manse of Belhaven.

The first person they saw was Maggie May herself. She ran joyously to meet Sandie, holding out both her hands. But she did not present her face to be kissed.

“I do declare, Maggie May,” said our hero, “you appear to have grown since I saw you last.”

“Yes,” said the girl, “I suppose I must have.” Then she blushed bonniely as she added, “You must remember I am quite old now, thirteen last birthday.”

“And you’ve had a birthday since I’ve been here, and I was not aware of it! How hard is fate! Never mind, Maggie May, I’ve brought you something for a Christmas present. Oh, I shan’t keep you guessing what it is, and you shall have it now. I have it here.”

Sandie went to the little dogcart and produced a box, and Maggie May’s eyes sparkled as she opened it and took therefrom a charming and well-filled cartridge-belt.

Of course she tried it on at once, and it fitted her nicely, and became her very much.

“And my little gift,” said Willie, presenting a little box. It contained a pair of beautiful earrings, that Maggie May thought must have cost a small fortune, so studded with precious stones were they.

About this moment Maggie May was probably the happiest girl in the parish.

Presently Mackenzie himself came in, then conversation became general.

“What think you of the weather?” said Sandie at last.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” answered the minister, “before twenty-four hours are over there will be a slight fall of snow and no wind.”

“Hurrah!” cried Sandie.

“I know why you cry ‘Hurrah!’ You’re thinking about the white hares!”

“That’s it.”

“Well, it is all arranged. There will be you, Sandie, Maggie May here, my man Stuart, and my simple self.”

“And me,” added Willie, with small regard for grammar.

“Well, now, as a friend,” said Sandie, “I’m going to be very straightforward. You remember your last sporting venture, and the somewhat original way you loaded your gun? Well, I think that this time you had better stay at home, Willie, and talk to my mother and Elsie.”

“I’ve got a new gun,” said Willie doggedly. “You’ve only to put in a cartridge and hold it out, and she goes off beautifully.”

“Yes; and perhaps shoots your neighbour.”

“Sandie M‘Crae, first Bursar of Marischal College, I’m going. That is decided.”

Sandie sighed.

“A wilful man must have his way,” he said.

The white or mountain hare, reader, is found plentifully in Norway and among our Scottish hills. It is not white all summer, but only changes to that colour when winter comes, a kind of provision of nature to hide it from its enemies, the fox and the eagle, and probably the great owl.

Its life is a hard one among the frozen hills in winter. Oftentimes its poor paws will be found skinned and bleeding from scratching the hard ground in order to procure a little food. They are usually stalked when snow is on the ground, their footsteps being followed, so that dogs are not really necessary.

But on this expedition, undertaken by our hero and his friends, the minister’s retriever, Carlo, made one of the party.

It may be thought wonderful that a mere child like Maggie May should be permitted to join a venture like this across the bleak and frozen hills. Sandie had suggested her staying at home.

“She’s a true Mackenzie,” said the minister. “A Mackenzie is nothing at all if not hardy. Believe me, Maggie will keep up with the best of us.”

Stuart, who had no gun, carried the luncheon and looked after the dog.

The trap was left at a little croft not far from a high steep hill, and then the party proceeded on foot.

There was broom to struggle through at first, then heather to wade among, so high that it nearly buried Maggie May. Sandie stuck by her side, helping her in every difficulty.

But as they reached higher ground, the heather grew shorter, and ere long entirely disappeared; then, to their great joy, they came upon the footprints of apparently several hares.

Cautiously they followed them up for some distance. Suddenly Willie brought his gun to the shoulder.

Bang! Carlo bounded forwards and returned next minute with a splendid specimen of the mountain hare.

“Good, Willie, good!” cried Sandie, grasping him by the hand. “But wasn’t it a——”

“A fluke? I think not.”

No one there had such quick eyes as Willie, for in five minutes more he repeated his first exploit, and a short time afterwards he did the same again.

As Mackenzie and the others looked so thoroughly and completely astonished, Willie was forced to laugh aloud.

“Oh, you humbug!” cried Sandie. “Why you’re a crack shot, you rascal, and that episode of loading the gun was got up to deceive us!”

“Look! look!” This from Willie, as two splendid ptarmigans rose from the ground.

Mackenzie and Willie fired a barrel each, and both birds fluttered groundwards.

Well might Willie smile. He had established his fame as a good shot, and completely wiped out the stain from his character as a sportsman.

On and on all that forenoon went the party, no one seeming to feel the least tired. But towards two o’clock they began to feel hungry, if they did not feel tired, for the air among these Highland hills is keen and bracing. So Stuart spread plaids on the snow, and down they all sat to one of the most delightful luncheons ever partaken of by hungry huntsmen. It was now nearly three o’clock, and the winter’s sun was rapidly nearing the pine forest on the rugged shores south of the Don. So all haste was made back to the trap, Sandie assisting Stuart in carrying the hares and birds. As they mounted the trap to drive back to the manse, everybody agreed that they had spent a glorious day.

Willie, nevertheless, confessed to being tired.

“Well,” said Sandie, “we’ll forgive you for that; but, O Willie, what a trick you played us!”

But the refreshing cups of tea that Maggie May brought Willie, when at last they got safely home, banished every vestige of fatigue, and he was soon his laughing, happy self again.

As the wind had now begun to blow, and snow was falling, the students agreed to stay at the manse all night. So a messenger was despatched immediately to Kilbuie farm to let Mrs. M‘Crae know their decision, and then Mackenzie, who really was a boy at heart, and the students settled down to enjoy themselves.

The minister rather prided himself on the good dinners he gave, and certainly that of to-night was no exception to the general rule.

After this, as Robbie Burns says—