"But I'll tell ye what's just as good, mister, and that's the King and Queen opening Parliament. Man, yon's a sicht, isn't it?" "I--er--I haven't had the opportunity of seeing it," I said. He looked more surprised than ever. "But, man, I'll tell ye what's just as good, and that's a big London fire. Man, to see the way the firemen go up the ladders like monkeys. Yon's a sicht for sair een!" "I never had the luck to see a fire in London," I said hesitatingly. "When were you last in town?" He did not seem to hear my question; he was evidently thinking of other London thrills. "Man," he said ruminatingly, "often while I sit in the Tarbonny Kirk I just sit and think aboot Westminster Abbey. Man, yon's a kirk! I suppose you'll be there ilka Sunday?" I found it difficult to tell him that I had never been in the Abbey, but I managed to get the words out, and then I avoided his reproachful eye. He knocked out his pipe, and I took the action to be a symbolic one meaning: You are an empty sort of person. He studied me critically for a time, then he brightened. "Aye," he said cheerfully, "London's a graund place, but, for sichts give me New York." I felt more humble than ever, for I had never travelled. He seemed to guess that by the look of me, for he never asked my opinion of New York. "Man," he said warmly, "yon's a place! Yon skyscrapers! Phew!" and he whistled his wonder and admiration. "And the streets! Man, ye canna walk on the sidewalk at the busy times. A wonderfu' place, New York, but, as for me, give me the West, California and Frisco." "You have travelled much, sir," I said reverently. The "sir" seemed to come naturally; my inferiority complex was touched on the raw. Again he ignored me. "To see yon cowboys! Man, yon's what I call riding! And the Indians!" He sighed; it was obvious that he was living over again his life in the western wilds. A wistful look crept into his eyes, and I began to construct his sad story. He loved a maid, but the bruiser of the camp loved her also . . . hence the broken-down clothes, the dirty collar. But anon he cheered up again. "Yes," he said, "I love the West, but for colour and climate give me Japan." I was so confused now that I had to blow out my pipe vigorously. I glanced at Dauvit, but he was sharpening his knife on the emery hone, and did not appear to be interested. I felt a vague anger against Dauvit; why wasn't he helping me in my trial? "Japan," continued the irrepressible stranger, "is one of the finest countries in the world, but, for climate give me Siberia."