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Surely here was good fortune for M’Fadyen! A party so well armed could afford to look with contempt on any highwayman that ever cried “Stand and deliver” over all broad Scotland. And it was not long before the honest drover, in the joy of his heart at finding himself in such goodly company, had expressed to the red-coated stranger the pleasure it would give him if he might be granted the escort across the moor of a gentleman so well armed and mounted; “for,” said he, “in sic ill times it was maist mischancey wark to ride far ane’s lane.” Little objection had the tall gentleman in red to make to such a proposition, and on they rode, amicably enough, with just such dryness of manner on the stranger’s part as the humble drover might expect from an army officer, yet nothing to keep his tongue from wagging. “It was a gey kittle bit they were comin’ to, where the firs stude, and he wad hae liked ill to be rubbit. Muckle? O–oo, no; just a wee pickle siller, but nae man likit to lose onything. And folk said they highwayman wad skin the breeks aff a Hielandman. No that he was a Hielandman, though his name did begin wi’ a “Mac.”

And so chattering, they had already won half-way across that lonely stretch of moor regarding which the drover had had misgivings. And even as they came abreast of that thick clump of stunted firs, up to M’Fadyen rode the servant, pointing towards the trees, and saying: “This is our way. Come ye wi’ me.”

There were few roads–such as they were–in the south of Scotland with which M’Fadyen’s business as a drover had not made him familiar, and naturally he refused now to leave a track which he knew to be the right one. Whereupon the servant up with his “long-gun” and struck him heavily over the head with the butt; and as M’Fadyen strove to defend himself and to retaliate, up rode the master, clapped a pistol to his breast, and forced him to go with them behind the clump of trees. The last M’Fadyen saw of his pleasant escort was the two knaves cantering over the heath, bearing with them his cloak-bag containing his L150.

A great fuss was made over this robbery, and the Privy Council took the matter up. The chief robber was undoubtedly an officer, said M’Fadyen, and besides the large wart over his eye, there were other marks which made him noticeable–for example, “the little finger of his left hand bowed towards his loof.” Notwithstanding these tell-tale marks, neither robber was ever found; M’Fadyen and his hard-earned L150 had parted company for ever. And though the Privy Council went so far as to “recommend Sir James Leslie, commander-in-chief for the time being of their Majesties’ forces within this kingdom, to cause make trial if there be any such person, either officer or soldier, amongst their Majesties’ forces, as the persons described,” no one was ever brought to book, either amongst the troops in Scotland, or amongst “the officers which are come over from Flanders to levy recruits.”

Not so fortunate as this scarlet-coated gentleman was Mr. Hudson, alias Hazlitt, who in 1770 stopped a post-chaise on Gateshead Fell, near Newcastle, and robbed the occupant, a lady who was returning to Newcastle from Durham. A poor-spirited creature was this Hudson, a little London clerk gone wrong, and he trembled so excessively when robbing the lady that she plucked up spirit, and, protesting that half a guinea was all she had, got off with the loss of that modest sum, not even having her watch taken. Despite his pistol, one cannot but feel that of the two the lady was the better man, and that, had it occurred to her, she might very readily have bundled the highwayman neck and crop into her chaise, and handed him over to the authorities.