On crossing the moor, however, whether from greater exposure to the blast, or from the laird's unsteadiness of head, his hat and wig came off and fell upon the ground.

Harry got out to pick them up and restore them to his master.

The laird was satisfied with the hat, but demurred at the wig.

"It's no my wig, Hairy, lad; it's no my wig," and refused to have anything to do with it.

Hairy lost his patience, and, anxious to get home, remonstrated with his master, "Ye'd better tak it, sir, for there's nae _waile_[161] o' wigs on Munrimmon Moor." The humour of the argument is exquisite, putting to the laird in his unreasonable objection the sly insinuation that in such a locality, if he did not take _this_ wig, he was not likely to find another.