He taught himself shorthand by the light of a cruizey, and got a post on a Perth paper, afterwards on the _Scotsman_ and the _Witness_, and finally on the _Times_.

Several other men of his type had a history worth reading, but it is not for me to write.

Yet I may say that there is still at least one of the original members of the club left behind in Thrums to whom some of the literary dandies might lift their hats.
Gavin Ogilvy I only knew as a weaver and a poacher; a lank, long-armed man, much bent from crouching in ditches whence he watched his snares.
To the young he was a romantic figure, because they saw him frequently in the fields with his call-birds tempting siskins, yellow yites, and linties to twigs which he had previously smeared with lime.

He made the lime from the tough roots of holly; sometimes from linseed oil, which is boiled until thick, when it is taken out of the pot and drawn and stretched with the hands like elastic.

Gavin was also a famous hare-snarer at a time when the ploughman looked upon this form of poaching as his perquisite.