s. Yon gentry
don't leave muckle to chance. Be very certain that every man in
Gresson's lot kens all about ye, and has your description down to the
mole on your chin.'

'Then they've got it wrong,' I replied.

'I was speakin' feeguratively,' said Amos. 'I was considerin' your case
the feck of yesterday, and I've brought the best I could do for ye in
the gig. I wish ye were more respectable clad, but a good topcoat will
hide defeecencies.'

From behind the gig's seat he pulled out an ancient Gladstone bag and
revealed its contents. There was a bowler of a vulgar and antiquated
style; there was a ready-made overcoat of some dark cloth, of the kind
that a clerk wears on the road to the office; there was a pair of
detachable celluloid cuffs, and there was a linen collar and dickie.
Also there was a small handcase, such as bagmen carry on their rounds.

'That's your luggage,' said Amos with pride. 'That wee bag's full of
samples. Ye'll mind I took the precaution of measurin' ye in Glasgow,
so the things'll fit. Ye've got a new name, Mr Brand, and I've taken a
room for ye in the hotel on the strength of it. Ye're Archibald
McCaskie, and ye're travellin' for the firm o' Todd, Sons & Brothers,
of Edinburgh. Ye ken the folk? They publish wee releegious books, that
ye've bin trying to sell for Sabbath-school prizes to the Free Kirk
ministers in Skye.'

The notion amused Amos, and he relapsed into the sombre chuckle which
with him did duty for a laugh.

I put my hat and waterproof in the bag and donned the bowler and the
top-coat. They fitted fairly well. Likewise the cuffs and collar,
though here I struck a snag, for I had lost my scarf somewhere in the
Coolin, and Amos, pelican-like, had to surrender the rusty black tie
which adorned his own person. It was a queer rig, and I felt like
nothing on earth in it, but Amos was satisfied.

'Mr McCaskie, sir,' he said, 'ye're the very model of a publisher's
traveller. Ye'd better learn a few biographical details, which ye've
maybe forgotten. Ye're an Edinburgh man, but ye were some years in
London, which explains the way ye speak. Ye bide at 6, Russell Street,
off the Meadows, and ye're an elder in the Nethergate U.F. Kirk. Have
ye ony special taste ye could lead the crack on to, if ye're engaged in
conversation?'

I suggested the English classics.

'And very suitable. Ye can try poalitics, too. Ye'd better be a
Free-trader but convertit by Lloyd George. That's a common case