An English reader of _The House with the Green Shutters_ would have concluded that these villagers were deliberately trying to put me in my place. By ignoring me might they not be showing their contempt for dominies who have just come from London? Not they. They were glad to see me again, and their method of showing their gladness was to take up our friendship at the point where it left off five years ago. The only time a Scot distrusts other Scots is when they fuss over him. The story goes in Tarbonny that when young Jim Lunan came home unexpectedly after a ten years' farming in Canada, his mother was washing the kitchen floor. "Mother!" he cried, "I've come hame!" She looked over her shoulder. "Wipe yer feet afore ye come in, ye clorty laddie," she said. But there is a garrulous type of Scot . . . or rather the type of Scot that tries to make the other fellow garrulous. In our county we call them the speerin' bodie. To speer means to ask questions. The speerin' bodie is common enough in Fife, and I suppose it was a Fifer who entered a railway compartment one morning and sat down to study the only other occupant--an Englishman. "It's a fine day," said the Scot, and there was a question in his tone. The Englishman sighed and laid aside his newspaper. "Aye, mester," continued the inquisitive Fifer, "and ye'll be----" The Englishman held up a forbidding hand. "You needn't go on," he said; "I'll tell you everything about myself. I was born in Leeds, the son of poor parents. I left school at the age of twelve, and I became a draper. I gradually worked my way up, and now I am traveller for a Manchester firm. I married six years ago. Three kids. Wife has rheumatism. Willie had measles last month. I have a seven room cottage; rent L27. I vote Tory; go to the Baptist church, and keep hens. Anything else you want to know?" The Scot had a very dissatisfied look. "What did yer grandfaither dee o'?" he demanded gruffly. When the argument about swine fever had died down, Dauvit turned to me. "Aye, and how is Lunnon lookin'?" "Same as ever," I answered. "Ye'll have to tak' Dauvit doon on a trip," laughed the smith. Dauvit drove in a tacket. "Man, smith, I was in Lunnon afore you was born," he said. "Go on, Dauvit," I said encouragingly, "tell us the story." I had heard it before, but I longed to hear it again. Dauvit brightened up. "There's no muckle to tell," he said, as he tossed the boot into a corner and wiped his face with his apron. "It'll be ten years come Martimas. Me and Will Tamson gaed up by boat frae Dundee. Oh! we had a graund time. But there's no muckle to tell." "What about Dave Brownlee?" I asked. Dauvit chuckled softly. "But ye've a' heard the story," he said, but we protested that we hadn't.