"So you're a second son, eh?" he pondered. "Man, ye have my sympathy. I had the same ill-luck. That's how my brother Angus got the pipes and I'm a tinker. Although, I wouldna mind being the second son o' a Laird or a Duke." "Well, my friend," said I; "that's just where our opinions differ. Now, I'd sooner be the second son of a rag-and-bone man; a--Perthshire piper of the name of Robertson; ay! of the devil himself,--than the second son of an Earl." "Do ye tell me that now!" he put in, with a cock of his towsled head, picking up another piece of rabbit. "You see,--you and these other fellows can do as you like; go where you like when you like. An Earl's second son has to serve his House. He has to pave the way and make things smooth for the son and heir. He is supposed to work the limelight that shines on his elder brother. He is tolerated, sometimes spoiled and petted, because,--well, because he has an elder brother who, some day, will be an Earl; but he counts for little or nothing in the world's affairs. "Be thankful, sir, you are only the second son of a highland piper." The tramp reflected for a while. "Ay, ay!" he philosophised at last, "no doot,--maybe,--just that. I can see you have your ain troubles and I'm thinkin', maybe, I'm just as weel the way I am. But it's a queer thing; we aye think the other man is gettin' the best o' what's goin'. It's the way o' the world." He was quiet a while. He negotiated the rabbit's head and I watched him with interest as he extracted every bit of meat from the maze of bone. "And you would be the Earl when your father dies, if it wasna for your brother?" he added. "Yes!" I answered. "Man, it must be a dreadful temptation." "What must be?" "Och! to keep from puttin' something in his whisky; to keep from flinging him ower the window or droppin' a flower pot on his heid, maybe. If my ain father had been an Earl, Angus Robertson would never have lived to blow the pipes. As it was, it was touch and go wi' Angus;--for they were the bonny pipes,--the grand, bonny pipes." "Do you mean to tell me, you would have murdered your brother for a skirling, screeching bagpipes?" I asked in horror. "Och! hardly that, man. Murder is no' a bonny name for it. I would just kind o' quietly have done awa' wi' him. It's maybe a pity my conscience was so keen, for he's no' much good, is Angus; he's a through-other customer: no' steady and law-abidin' like mysel'." "Well, my friend," I said finally---- "Donald! that's my name." "Well, Donald, I must be on my way." "What's a' the hurry, man?" "Business." "Oh! weel; give me your hand on it. You've a fine face. The face o' a man that, if he had a dram on him, he would give me a drop o' it." "That I would, Donald." "It's a pity. But ye don't happen to have the price o' the dram on ye?" "Maybe I have, Donald." I handed him a sixpence. "Thank ye. I'm never wrong in the readin' o' face character."