AN ART OF THE HIGHLAND WILD.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 18, Issue 90, 8 November 1907, Page 7

AN ART OF THE HIGHLAND WILD.

That the days of the “sma r ‘ still” (by running water, tn a quiet place in the hills) are not yet over, is shown by the recent seizure of an illicit distilling plant near Loch Long Ross-shire, by the Inland Revenue staff stationed at Lochcarron. Rossshire has been long famed for its smugglers, and many are the stones told of the astuteness of those pawky worthies in eluding the authorities. One old rogue once made a heavy bet with an Excise officer that, on a certain day, by a certain, road, he would send several hundred gallons of liquor into the town of Inverness, and escape detection. On the day appointed the gaugers went out in full force, and they watched and waited from dawn till dark— and discovered nothing. But the smuggler won the wager ! During the day a funeral cortege had passed, consisting of an old-fashion-ed, closed-in hearse, several coaches, and goodly number of mourners, with long faces, black surtouts, and prehistoric “lum” hats. Had the excisemen looked inside the hearse they would have found no body but a great deal of spirit—raw. “CUDDLING” THE GAUGER. A gauger was on his way to pay a surprise visit to a house where, he had good reason to believe, a still was being manipulated. When within a hundred yards of the place he was suddenly confronted by a stalwart, handsome wench, who flung her arms around him and began to kiss him heartily. The gauger was a small man, and he was powerless in the hands of his affectionate assailant. When he was eventually released, he proceeded to the house, but found that he had been detained quite long enough to allow the “worm,” i.e., the most important and valuable part of the still, to be removed. This man told a friend of the writer that he had never received such a “cuddling” in all his life. A “SMALL STILL” VOICE. The sdmo gauger once had another rather interesting experience. He and a colleague had suspected that there was a still in, or adjacent to, a certain house, the occupants of which, to all appearance, were in a state of extreme poverty, and one of them was an old, bed-ridden woman. They had watched the place at all hours, and time and again had scoured the vicinity without success. One evening they entered the house with a warrant. They found everything as usual, and the old woman was Hying on her shake-down in the corner, with a look of long-suffering on her face. As the excisemen were preparing to depart, baffled but unsatisfied, they heard a voice, low and muffled. It came from under the floor. They told the invalid that they were going to move her bed ; and they wore just about' to do so when she, who had been bedridden for years, got up and walked. Beneath the bed a trap-door was discovered, and in the cellar underneath a cunningly-contrived still in full working order, the flue of which communicated with the chimney of the house, a sure means of dispelling the smuggler’s dread—smoke,