"
The spot which Allen indicated was on the side of a rather steep grassy
slope. I approached it, dragged at the tussock of grass, which came away
easily enough, and revealed the entrance to no more romantic hiding-place
than an old secret whiskey "still." Private stills, not uncommon in
Sutherland and some other northern shires, are extinct in Galloway. Allen
had probably found this one by accident in his wanderings, and in his
half-insane bitterness against mankind had made it, for some time at
least, his home. The smoke-blackened walls, the recesses where the worm-
tub and the still now stood, all plainly enough betrayed the original
user of the hiding-place. There was a low bedstead, a shelf or two,
whereon lay a few books--a Shakespeare, a Homer, a Walton, Plutarch's
"Lives"; very little else out of a library once so rich. There was a tub
of oatmeal, a heap of dry peat, two or three eggs in a plate, some
bottles, a keg of whiskey, some sardine-tins, a box with clothes--that
was nearly all the "plenishing" of this hermitage. It was never likely
to be discovered, except by the smoke, when the inmate lit a fire. The
local shepherd knew it, of course, but Allen had bought his silence, not
that there were many neighbours for the shepherd to tattle with.
Allen had recovered strength enough by this time to reach his den with
little assistance.
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