sion it was in the nature of a terrible family tragedy.

By the middle of May the hot weather had returned, and with it a period of stagnation in trenches. Having been in the country for fifteen months without a break, I got a month's leave in India, and Abdul and I left for Bombay. The change from the heat, dust, and discomfort of the desert to the cool saloon of a transport, with its cleanliness, electric fans, and iced drinks was very welcome. What impressed us most, however, was, I think, the churning of the propellers in the clear depth of the open sea after crossing the bar whose thick muddy waters seemed to us so typical of Mesopotamia, and afterwards to see the clear sea-water gurgling into the bath. On several hot days before we left I had noticed that Abdul was looking his age, whatever it was, and although loth to part with him, I felt that he wasn't really up to another hot weather. I determined, however, to give him the chance, so sounded him one day as to going back with me after my leave.

"No, your honour," he said. "I have at last made up my mind that I am too old for war, at least in that thrice accursed country. You must get a younger than I-but not too young." Here he quoted the Indian saying about the young buffalo requiring the new grass, which is about the nearest equivalent I know to our own

His kind master had not at that time intimated his intention of giving him any present, handsome or otherwise, although, of course, he meant to, and did. We arrived in Bombay, and one evening found us at the railway station, Abdul about to proceed by the Punjab mail to Peshawur, and I to Mussoorie. His train left a quarter of an hour before mine, so that I was able to see him off. He stood on the platform with me in silence until the guard came along to close the carriage doors, and then suddenly taking both my hands in his, he placed them on his head and sobbed. I had to push him in through the door and place him in his seat, where he remained with his head bowed to his chest, crying quietly. As the train slowly drew away he made an effort, rose to his feet, and looked out of the carriage window; then, like a child who suddenly laughs in the middle of tears, the old smile came over his tear-stained face as he bravely waved me good-bye. I never saw him again.

THIS is the story of an early adventure during the promotion of the West Highland Railway. It is a tale of how a little band of seven determined men, with plenty of confidence in themselves, a lamentable contempt for the conditions they had to face, and a sublime disregard of the adverse weather conditions, set out to cross on foot the desolate Moor of Rannoch, and, as ofttimes happens even to the unwisely bold, achieved their object. Their adventure proved in the end a delightful comedy, though it very nearly culminated in dire tragedy.

The seven gentlemen who undertook that arduous Anabasis were

"The Engineer," the moving spirit of the railway undertaking, full of dauntless determination, to the frequent neglect of a protesting body, from which the mind was singularly detached. He was then verging on forty years of age.

"The Elderly Land Agent," short, heavily built, and about sixty years of age. A townsman in appearance, equipped for the event in a high-sided felt hat and waterproof, and carrying an umbrella.

"The Major," tall, spare, well set up, and active. A typical Victorian, side whiskers, and all complete; the cheeriest

and best of companions. His age was about forty.

The Lawyer," age about forty-two. Tall, bearded, suave, and dignified, with the precise and perfect pronunciation peculiar to Inverness-shire, delivering his opinions with absolute finality.

The Surveyor," the only member of the party who had already crossed the moor. He had worked his way across when taking preliminary levels for the railway. He was thirtythree years of age or thereby.

"The Assistant Engineer," a veritable gust of wind, always busy, never at rest. Ever heart, mind, and body in the job on hand, with a quaint habit of relieving his feelings in moments of stress by sweetly whistling soft harmonic cadences. He was twenty-eight years of age.

Last, but not least, "The Contractor," aged forty-one. Stout, full-blooded, and loquacious; overflowing with energy of mind, self-confidence, and the spirit of achievement. To-day he rests on his laurels, doubtless reviewing the many achievements he has attained, and perchance recalling the trials, pitfalls, and dangers that his determination has overcome; possibly not the least of these being the successful issue of his night of wandering on Ran

noch Moor. He and the Assistant Engineer are to-day the only two of the party of seven who are still alive.

The main section of the West Highland Railway, which extends for its 101 miles of length from Craigendoran on the Firth of Clyde to Fort William, is the longest stretch of railway that has been constructed in Britain at one time. Those who are familiar with the character of the country traversed will recognise that the location and construction of the line embraced many unique and interesting features. Starting on the Clyde estuary at sea-level, the line crosses the main watershed, or backbone, of Scotland no less than four times, at elevations of from 620 to 1350 feet, before again reaching sea-level on the west at Fort William. For the first fifty and the last twenty miles, it for the most part follows the glens traversed by the main roads, by means of which the proposed route was more or less readily accessible.

The intermediate stretch embraces that wild and trackless waste known as the Moor of Rannoch, with its endless pros pect of boulder-strewn hummocks, bog, lake, and peaty tarn, giving rise to sluggish streams making their tortuous courses eastward to the North Sea by Rannoch and the Tay, and to the Atlantic on the west by the glens of Orchy, Etive, and Spean. Truly a birthplace of many waters.

Prior to the advent of the

railway, crossing the moor between Kingshouse Inn on the west and Rannoch on the east, though only a matter of some seventeen miles, was regarded as a feat demanding courage and hardihood, partly by reason of the badness of the ground and difficulty of location in the event of mist, but principally on account of the absence of human habitation, and the spell cast by the vastness and solitude of the surroundings.

The route is now intersected by the railway at about halfway across, and the wayfarer is cheered by this link with his fellow-men, while from Rannoch station he has the advantage of a well-made road leading to Rannoch and beyond.

Between north and south, however, there are no starting and finishing points within reach to tempt a crossing. The way is long, and the "going

in

"

places laboriously slow. Black, sluggish, and apparently bottomless streams wander in all directions, and have to be crossed. Distances deceive the eye. Few salient features present themselves to lead the traveller on, and such as there are of a far distance seeming ever to recede, as if part of a grand conspiracy to dishearten him and retard his progress.

It is to this stretch of the moor, from Loch Treig on the north to the glen of the Tulla on the south, that the following incidents relate, and they left in the minds of those who participated a lasting impression of remoteness and desola

tion, which the passenger by rail to-day, whirled across in comfort, can scarcely realise.

The Bill seeking power to construct the railway having been deposited with Parliament in the autumn of 1888, the interval until it should come up for hearing before the Committees in the spring was taken advantage of by the promoters in collecting evidence in its support-in particular that relating to sources of traffic-and to substantiate the estimates of constructional cost and land values. With this end in view it was arranged that the route of the proposed line should be traversed by experts capable of giving authoritative evidence on the various subjects.

Circumstances determined the date, 29th January 1889, at a wholly unsuitable season of the year. When, in the light of experience, one considers the formidable nature of the undertaking, even under the most favourable conditions, and the sequence of events, grave doubts arise as to whether a practical programme had been evolved among the wise heads of the party. Certainly whatever plans were made miscarried, and the elements intervened, as if determined against the invasion of these solitudes by the pioneers of the iron road.

The company met at Fort William, and on the first day drove over the section between Fort William and Loch Ailort, at the entrance to which the seaward terminus was origin

ally proposed. This terminus was subsequently abandoned in favour of the present one at Mallaig.

The evening was spent at Spean Bridge, the intention being to pass the next night at Lord Abinger's shooting-lodge Craig - uaine - ach (pronounced Craiguanach). From this point the moor was to be crossed to the valley of the Tulla Water, thence to Tyndrum, following generally the route of the proposed railway.

The second day's programme included a drive up Glen Spean by the Kingussie road to Inverlair Lodge, and a walk of about two and a half miles to the foot of Loch Treig. There being no track beyond this point, the party was to proceed by boat some six miles more to the head of the loch, and continue, again on foot, for three-quarters of a mile to Craig-uaine-ach. To this place a messenger had been sent on the previous day with the necessary instructions to the keeper at the lodge.

The ghillie was to travel by a short mountain route known as the Larig; but whether it was that he lost himself, or never started, or the Gaelic was inadequate for conveying the message correctly, the ultimate arrival of the party at the lodge, near midnight, was wholly unexpected.

They started bravely, with spirited exchanges of chaff as to their coming experiences on the moor, the vague menace of which seemed to obtrude upon