The scene next morning was extremely short. Jim and I went out before breakfast, and found Sandie at the back door, silent and respectful. In the yard were a dozen young Highlanders, who had beaten for us the day before. “Morning, Sandie,” said Jim shortly. “We’ll drive hares to-day. We ought to get a lot in those narrow gorges up above. Get a dozen beaters more, can you?” “There will be na hare-drive here,” said Sandie quietly. “I have given you your orders,” said Jim. Sandie turned to the group of beaters outside and spoke half a dozen words in Gaelic. Next moment the yard was empty, and they were all running down the hillside towards Achnaleish. One stood on the skyline a moment, waving his arms, making some signal, as I supposed, to the village below. Then Sandie turned again. “An’ whaur are your beaters, sir?” he asked. For the moment I was afraid Jim was going to strike him. But he controlled himself. “You are discharged,” he said. The hare-drive, therefore, since there were neither beaters nor keeper--Maclaren, the head-keeper, having been given this “day-off” to bury his mother--was clearly out of the question, and Jim, still blustering rather, but a good bit taken aback at the sudden disciplined defection of the beaters, was in betting humour that they would all return by to-morrow morning. Meanwhile the post which should have arrived before now had not come, though Mabel from her bedroom window had seen the post-cart on its way up the drive a quarter of an hour ago. At that a sudden idea struck me, and I ran to the edge of the hog’s back on which the house was set. It was even as I thought: the post-cart was just striking the high-road below, going away from the house and back to the village, without having left our letters. I went back to the dining-room. Everything apparently was going wrong this morning: the bread was stale, the milk was not fresh, and the bell was rung for Buxton. Quite so: neither milkman nor baker had called. From the point of view of folk-lore this was admirable. “There’s another cock-and-bull story called ‘taboo,’” I said. “It means that nobody will supply you with anything.” “My dear fellow, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” said Jim, helping himself to marmalade. I laughed. “You are irritated,” I said, “because you are beginning to be afraid that there is something in it.” “Yes, that’s quite true,” he said. “But who could have supposed there was anything in it? Ah, dash it! there _can’t_ be. A hare is a hare.” “Except when it is your first cousin,” said I. “Then I shall go out and shoot first cousins by myself,” he said.