Now to return to Strathclair and Manitoba, about which I was writing. On our return from the lumber camp we made a detour, and stopped one night at Charlie Geekie’s house. He was the eldest of four brothers who were settled in the neighbourhood; he was known as the Laird, and was at the time I mention reeve of the township (a sort of mayor); a fine old Highlander he was, too. I drove a jumper, with a five-gallon keg of whisky in the hind end, in his interests during the election, which happened to be held while I was there; but, unfortunately, he was beaten. During the evening that we stayed at his house, which was perched up on a hill, some one noticed a glare of fire in the direction of Strathclair, which was about ten miles off. But as we were too far off to do any good, and it was late, we decided not to go in till morning. How some nights stick in one’s memory! That is one I shall not easily forget—the red-hot stove, the deafening squeal of the bagpipes, played by the laird (who was an immense, bushy-haired and bushy-bearded man). He was a sight to see as he pranced up and down, full of whisky and music. This he and his brother alternated with old Scotch songs and ballads, while we refreshed ourselves with whisky, which we drank out of polished horn cups. One of these the laird gave me, which I kept as a memento for many years after. Horn, he told me, was the proper vessel to drink out of, as no one but yourself could know the size of your tot! In the morning we went on to Strathclair, to find that the fire had been in the railroad station, which was burned to the ground, including the station-master’s house and the freight warehouse. All my trunks were lost, and I had nothing left but the clothes I stood in, my rifle, shot-gun, and a few things I had in a gladstone bag. This necessitated my return to Guelph to replenish my wardrobe; but Geekie was pressing in his invitation to stay on a few weeks, and draw on him for anything I needed in the way of clothes.