Chapter Five. Various Doings in the West

Mr. Standfast

by John Buchan

The Tobermory was no ship for passengers. Its decks were littered
with a hundred oddments, so that a man could barely walk a step
without tacking, and my bunk was simply a shelf in the frowsty little
saloon, where the odour of ham and eggs hung like a fog. I joined
her at Greenock and took a turn on deck with the captain after tea,
when he told me the names of the big blue hills to the north. He had
a fine old copper-coloured face and side-whiskers like an archbishop,
and, having spent all his days beating up the western seas, had as
many yarns in his head as Peter himself.

'On this boat,' he announced, 'we don't ken what a day may bring
forth. I may put into Colonsay for twa hours and bide there three
days. I get a telegram at Oban and the next thing I'm awa ayont
Barra. Sheep's the difficult business. They maun be fetched for the
sales, and they're dooms slow to lift. So ye see it's not what ye
call a pleasure trip, Maister Brand.'

Indeed it wasn't, for the confounded tub wallowed like a fat sow
as soon as we rounded a headland and got the weight of the south-
western wind. When asked my purpose, I explained that I was a
colonial of Scots extraction, who was paying his first visit to his
fatherland and wanted to explore the beauties of the West Highlands.
I let him gather that I was not rich in this world's goods.

' Ye'll have a passport?' he asked. 'They'll no let ye go north
o' Fort William without one.'

Amos had said nothing about passports, so I looked blank.

'I could keep ye on board for the whole voyage,' he went on,
'but ye wouldna be permitted to land. if ye're seekin' enjoyment, it
would be a poor job sittin' on this deck and admirin' the works O'
God and no allowed to step on the pier-head. Ye should have applied
to the military gentlemen in Glesca. But ye've plenty o' time to
make up your mind afore we get to Oban. We've a heap o' calls to
make Mull and Islay way.'

The purser came up to inquire about my ticket, and greeted me
with a grin.

,Ye're acquaint with Mr Gresson, then?' said the captain.
'Weel, we're a cheery wee ship's company, and that's the great thing
on this kind o' job.'

I made but a poor supper, for the wind had risen to half a gale,
and I saw hours of wretchedness approaching. The trouble with me is
that I cannot be honestly sick and get it over. Queasiness and
headache beset me and there is no refuge but bed. I turned into my
bunk, leaving the captain and the mate smoking shag not six feet from
my head, and fell into a restless sleep. When I woke the place was
empty, and smelt vilely of stale tobacco and cheese. My throbbing
brows made sleep impossible, and I tried to ease them by staggering
upon deck. I saw a clear windy sky, with every star as bright as a
live coal, and a heaving waste of dark waters running to ink-black
hills. Then a douche of spray caught me and sent me down the
companion to my bunk again, where I lay for hours trying to make a
plan of campaign.

I argued that if Amos had wanted me to have a passport he would
have provided one, so I needn't bother my head about that. But it was
my business to keep alongside Gresson, and if the boat stayed a week
in some port and he went off ashore, I must follow him. Having no
passport I would have to be always dodging trouble, which would
handicap my movements and in all likelihood make me more conspicuous
than I wanted. I guessed that Amos had denied me the passport for
the very reason that he wanted Gresson to think me harmless. The
area of danger would, therefore, be the passport country, somewhere
north of Fort William.

But to follow Gresson I must run risks and enter that country.
His suspicions, if he had any, would be lulled if I left the boat at
Oban, but it was up to me to follow overland to the north and hit the
place where the Tobermory made a long stay. The confounded tub had
no plans; she wandered about the West Highlands looking for sheep and
things; and the captain himself could give me no time-table of her
voyage. It was incredible that Gresson should take all this trouble
if he did not know that at some place - and the right place - he
would have time to get a spell ashore. But I could scarcely ask
Gresson for that information, though I determined to cast a wary fly
over him. I knew roughly the Tobermory's course - through the Sound
of Islay to Colonsay; then up the east side of Mull to Oban; then
through the Sound of Mull to the islands with names like cocktails,
Rum and Eigg and Coll; then to Skye; and then for the Outer Hebrides.
I thought the last would be the place, and it seemed madness to
leave the boat, for the Lord knew how I should get across the Minch.
This consideration upset all my plans again, and I fell into a
troubled sleep without coming to any conclusion.

Morning found us nosing between Jura and Islay, and about midday
we touched at a little port, where we unloaded some cargo and took on
a couple of shepherds who were going to Colonsay. The mellow
afternoon and the good smell of salt and heather got rid of the dregs
of my queasiness, and I spent a profitable hour on the pier-head with
a guide-book called Baddely's Scotland, and one of Bartholomew's
maps. I was beginning to think that Amos might be able to tell me
something, for a talk with the captain had suggested that the
Tobermory would not dally long in the neighbourhood of Rum and Eigg.
The big droving season was scarcely on yet, and sheep for the Oban
market would be lifted on the return journey. In that case Skye was
the first place to watch, and if I could get wind of any big cargo
waiting there I would be able to make a plan. Amos was somewhere
near the Kyle, and that was across the narrows from Skye. Looking at
the map, it seemed to me that, in spite of being passportless, I
might be able somehow to make my way up through Morvern and Arisaig
to the latitude of Skye. The difficulty would be to get across the
strip of sea, but there must be boats to beg, borrow or steal.

I was poring over Baddely when Gresson sat down beside me. He
was in a good temper, and disposed to talk, and to my surprise his
talk was all about the beauties of the countryside. There was a kind
of apple-green light over everything; the steep heather hills cut
into the sky like purple amethysts, while beyond the straits the
western ocean stretched its pale molten gold to the sunset. Gresson
waxed lyrical over the scene. 'This just about puts me right inside,
Mr Brand. I've got to get away from that little old town pretty
frequent or I begin to moult like a canary. A man feels a man when
he gets to a place that smells as good as this. Why in hell do we
ever get messed up in those stone and lime cages? I reckon some day
I'll pull my freight for a clean location and settle down there and
make little poems. This place would about content me. And there's a
spot out in California in the Coast ranges that I've been keeping my
eye on,' The odd thing was that I believe he meant it. His ugly face
was lit up with a serious delight.

He told me he had taken this voyage before, so I got out Baddely
and asked for advice. 'I can't spend too much time on holidaying,' I
told him, 'and I want to see all the beauty spots. But the best of
them seem to be in the area that this fool British Government won't
let you into without a passport. I suppose I shall have to leave you
at Oban.'

'Too bad,' he said sympathetically. 'Well, they tell me there's
some pretty sights round Oban.' And he thumbed the guide-book and
began to read about Glencoe.

I said that was not my purpose, and pitched him a yarn about
Prince Charlie and how my mother's great-grandfather had played some
kind of part in that show. I told him I wanted to see the place
where the Prince landed and where he left for France. 'So far as I
can make out that won't take me into the passport country, but I'll
have to do a bit of footslogging. Well, I'm used to padding the
hoof. I must get the captain to put me off in Morvern, and then I
can foot it round the top of Lochiel and get back to Oban through
Appin. How's that for a holiday trek?'

He gave the scheme his approval. 'But if it was me, Mr Brand, I
would have a shot at puzzling your gallant policemen. You and I
don't take much stock in Governments and their two-cent laws, and it
would be a good game to see just how far you could get into the
forbidden land. A man like you could put up a good bluff on those
hayseeds. I don't mind having a bet ...'

'No,' I said. 'I'm out for a rest, and not for sport. If there
was anything to be gained I'd undertake to bluff my way to the Orkney
Islands. But it's a wearing job and I've better things to think
about.'

'So? Well, enjoy yourself your own way. I'll be sorry when you
leave us, for I owe you something for that rough-house, and beside
there's darned little company in the old moss-back captain.'

That evening Gresson and I swopped yarns after supper to the
accompaniment of the 'Ma Goad!' and 'Is't possible?' of captain and
mate. I went to bed after a glass or two of weak grog, and made up
for the last night's vigil by falling sound asleep. I had very
little kit with me, beyond what I stood up in and could carry in my
waterproof pockets, but on Amos's advice I had brought my little
nickel-plated revolver. This lived by day in my hip pocket, but at
night I put it behind my pillow. But when I woke next morning to
find us casting anchor in the bay below rough low hills, which I knew
to be the island of Colonsay, I could find no trace of the revolver.
I searched every inch of the bunk and only shook out feathers from
the mouldy ticking. I remembered perfectly putting the thing behind
my head before I went to sleep, and now it had vanished utterly. Of
course I could not advertise my loss, and I didn't greatly mind it,
for this was not a job where I could do much shooting. But it made
me think a good deal about Mr Gresson. He simply could not suspect
me; if he had bagged my gun, as I was pretty certain he had, it must
be because he wanted it for himself and not that he might disarm me.
Every way I argued it I reached the same conclusion. In Gresson's
eyes I must seem as harmless as a child.

We spent the better part of a day at Colonsay, and Gresson, so
far as his duties allowed, stuck to me like a limpet. Before I went
ashore I wrote out a telegram for Amos. I devoted a hectic hour to
the Pilgrim's Progress, but I could not compose any kind of
intelligible message with reference to its text. We had all the same
edition - the one in the Golden Treasury series - so I could have
made up a sort of cipher by referring to lines and pages, but that
would have taken up a dozen telegraph forms and seemed to me too
elaborate for the purpose. So I sent this message:

Ochterlony, Post Office, Kyle, I hope to spend part
of holiday near you and to see you if boat's programme permits.
Are any good cargoes waiting in your neighbourhood? Reply Post
Office, Oban. It was highly important that Gresson should not see
this, but it was the deuce of a business to shake him off. I went
for a walk in the afternoon along the shore and passed the telegraph
office, but the confounded fellow was with me all the time. My only
chance was just before we sailed, when he had to go on board to check
some cargo. As the telegraph office stood full in view of the ship's
deck I did not go near it. But in the back end of the clachan I
found the schoolmaster, and got him to promise to send the wire. I
also bought off him a couple of well-worn sevenpenny novels.

The result was that I delayed our departure for ten minutes and
when I came on board faced a wrathful Gresson. 'Where the hell have
you been?' he asked. 'The weather's blowing up dirty and the old
man's mad to get off. Didn't you get your legs stretched enough this
afternoon?'

I explained humbly that I had been to the schoolmaster to get
something to read, and produced my dingy red volumes. At that his
brow cleared. I could see that his suspicions were set at rest.

We left Colonsay about six in the evening with the sky behind us
banking for a storm, and the hills of Jura to starboard an angry
purple. Colonsay was too low an island to be any kind of breakwater
against a western gale, so the weather was bad from the start. Our
course was north by east, and when we had passed the butt-end of the
island we nosed about in the trough of big seas, shipping tons of
water and rolling like a buffalo. I know as much about boats as
about Egyptian hieroglyphics, but even my landsman's eyes could tell
that we were in for a rough night. I was determined not to get
queasy again, but when I went below the smell of tripe and onions
promised to be my undoing; so I dined off a slab of chocolate and a
cabin biscuit, put on my waterproof, and resolved to stick it out on
deck.

I took up position near the bows, where I was out of reach of
the oily steamer smells. It was as fresh as the top of a mountain,
but mighty cold and wet, for a gusty drizzle had set in, and I got
the spindrift of the big waves. There I balanced myself, as we
lurched into the twilight, hanging on with one hand to a rope which
descended from the stumpy mast. I noticed that there was only an
indifferent rail between me and the edge, but that interested me and
helped to keep off sickness. I swung to the movement of the vessel,
and though I was mortally cold it was rather pleasant than otherwise.
My notion was to get the nausea whipped out of me by the weather,
and, when I was properly tired, to go down and turn in.

I stood there till the dark had fallen. By that time I was an
automaton, the way a man gets on sentry-go, and I could have easily
hung on till morning. My thoughts ranged about the earth, beginning
with the business I had set out on, and presently - by way of
recollections of Blenkiron and Peter - reaching the German forest
where, in the Christmas of 1915, I had been nearly done in by fever
and old Stumm. I remembered the bitter cold of that wild race, and
the way the snow seemed to burn like fire when I stumbled and got my
face into it. I reflected that sea-sickness was kitten's play to a
good bout of malaria.

The weather was growing worse, and I was getting more than
spindrift from the seas. I hooked my arm round the rope, for my
fingers were numbing. Then I fell to dreaming again, principally
about Fosse Manor and Mary Lamington. This so ravished me that I was
as good as asleep. I was trying to reconstruct the picture as I had
last seen her at Biggleswick station ...

A heavy body collided with me and shook my arm from the rope. I
slithered across the yard of deck, engulfed in a whirl of water. One
foot caught a stanchion of the rail, and it gave with me, so that for
an instant I was more than half overboard. But my fingers clawed
wildly and caught in the links of what must have been the anchor
chain. They held, though a ton's weight seemed to be tugging at my
feet ... Then the old tub rolled back, the waters slipped off, and I
was sprawling on a wet deck with no breath in me and a gallon of
brine in my windpipe.

I heard a voice cry out sharply, and a hand helped me to my
feet. It was Gresson, and he seemed excited.

'God, Mr Brand, that was a close call! I was coming up to find
you, when this damned ship took to lying on her side. I guess I must
have cannoned into you, and I was calling myself bad names when I saw
you rolling into the Atlantic. If I hadn't got a grip on the rope I
would have been down beside you. Say, you're not hurt? I reckon
you'd better come below and get a glass of rum under your belt.
You're about as wet as mother's dish-clouts.'

There's one advantage about campaigning. You take your luck
when it comes and don't worry about what might have been. I didn't
think any more of the business, except that it had cured me of
wanting to be sea-sick. I went down to the reeking cabin without one
qualm in my stomach, and ate a good meal of welsh-rabbit and bottled
Bass, with a tot of rum to follow up with. Then I shed my wet
garments, and slept in my bunk till we anchored off a village in Mull
in a clear blue morning.

It took us four days to crawl up that coast and make Oban, for
we seemed to be a floating general store for every hamlet in those
parts. Gresson made himself very pleasant, as if he wanted to atone
for nearly doing me in. We played some poker, and I read the little
books I had got in Colonsay, and then rigged up a fishing-line, and
caught saithe and lythe and an occasional big haddock. But I found
the time pass slowly, and I was glad that about noon one day we came
into a bay blocked with islands and saw a clean little town sitting
on the hills and the smoke of a railway engine.

I went ashore and purchased a better brand of hat in a tweed
store. Then I made a bee-line for the post office, and asked for
telegrams. One was given to me, and as I opened it I saw Gresson at
my elbow.

It read thus:

Brand, Post office, Oban. Page 117, paragraph 3.
Ochterlony. I passed it to Gresson with a rueful face.

'There's a piece of foolishness,' I said. 'I've got a cousin
who's a Presbyterian minister up in Ross-shire, and before I knew
about this passport humbug I wrote to him and offered to pay him a
visit. I told him to wire me here if it was convenient, and the old
idiot has sent me the wrong telegram. This was likely as not meant
for some other brother parson, who's got my message instead.'

'What's the guy's name?' Gresson asked curiously, peering at the
signature.

'Ochterlony. David Ochterlony. He's a great swell at writing
books, but he's no earthly use at handling the telegraph. However,
it don't signify, seeing I'm not going near him.' I crumpled up the
pink form and tossed it on the floor. Gresson and I walked to the
Tobermory together.

That afternoon, when I got a chance, I had out my Pilgrim's
Progress. Page 117, paragraph 3, read:

'Then I saw in my dream, that a little off the road, over
against the Silver-mine, stood Demas (gentlemanlike) to call to
passengers to come and see: who said to Christian and his
fellow, Ho, turn aside hither and I will show you a thing. At tea I
led the talk to my own past life. I yarned about my experiences as a
mining engineer, and said I could never get out of the trick of
looking at country with the eye of the prospector. 'For instance,' I
said, 'if this had been Rhodesia, I would have said there was a good
chance of copper in these little kopjes above the town. They're not
unlike the hills round the Messina mine.' I told the captain that
after the war I was thinking of turning my attention to the West
Highlands and looking out for minerals.

'Ye'll make nothing of it,' said the captain. 'The costs are
ower big, even if ye found the minerals, for ye'd have to import a'
your labour. The West Hielandman is no fond o' hard work. Ye ken
the psalm o' the crofter?

O that the peats would cut themselves, The fish chump
on the shore, And that I in my bed might lie Henceforth for
ever more!' 'Has it ever been tried?' I asked.

'Often. There's marble and slate quarries, and there was word
o' coal in Benbecula. And there's the iron mines at Ranna.'

'Where's that?' I asked.

'Up forenent Skye. We call in there, and generally bide a bit.
There's a heap of cargo for Ranna, and we usually get a good load
back. But as I tell ye, there's few Hielanders working there.
Mostly Irish and lads frae Fife and Falkirk way.'

I didn't pursue the subject, for I had found Demas's
silver-mine. If the Tobermory lay at Ranna for a week, Gresson would
have time to do his own private business. Ranna would not be the
spot, for the island was bare to the world in the middle of a
much-frequented channel. But Skye was just across the way, and when
I looked in my map at its big, wandering peninsulas I concluded that
my guess had been right, and that Skye was the place to make for.

That night I sat on deck with Gresson, and in a wonderful starry
silence we watched the lights die out of the houses in the town, and
talked of a thousand things. I noticed - what I had had a hint of
before - that my companion was no common man. There were moments
when he forgot himself and talked like an educated gentleman: then he
would remember, and relapse into the lingo of Leadville, Colorado.
In my character of the ingenuous inquirer I set him posers about
politics and economics, the kind of thing I might have been supposed
to pick up from unintelligent browsing among little books. Generally
he answered with some slangy catchword, but occasionally he was
interested beyond his discretion, and treated me to a harangue like
an equal. I discovered another thing, that he had a craze for
poetry, and a capacious memory for it. I forgot how we drifted into
the subject, but I remember he quoted some queer haunting stuff which
he said was Swinburne, and verses by people I had heard of from
Letchford at Biggleswick. Then he saw by my silence that he had gone
too far, and fell back into the jargon of the West. He wanted to
know about my plans, and we went down into the cabin and had a look
at the map. I explained my route, up Morvern and round the head of
Lochiel, and back to Oban by the east side of Loch Linnhe.

'Got you,' he said. 'You've a hell of a walk before you. That
bug never bit me, and I guess I'm not envying you any. And after
that, Mr Brand?'

'Back to Glasgow to do some work for the cause,' I said lightly.
'Just so,' he said with a grin. 'It's a great life if you don't
weaken.'

We steamed out of the bay next morning at dawn, and about nine
o'clock I got on shore at a little place called Lochaline. My kit
was all on my person, and my waterproof's pockets were stuffed with
chocolates and biscuits I had bought in Oban. The captain was
discouraging. 'Ye'll get your bellyful o' Hieland hills, Mr Brand,
afore ye win round the loch head. Ye'll be wishin' yerself back on
the Tobermory.' But Gresson speeded me joyfully on my way, and said
he wished he were coming with me. He even accompanied me the first
hundred yards, and waved his hat after me till I was round the turn
of the road.

The first stage in that journey was pure delight. I was
thankful to be rid of the infernal boat, and the hot summer scents
coming down the glen were comforting after the cold, salt smell of
the sea. The road lay up the side of a small bay, at the top of which
a big white house stood among gardens. Presently I had left the
coast and was in a glen where a brown salmon-river swirled through
acres of bog-myrtle. It had its source in a loch, from which the
mountain rose steeply - a place so glassy in that August forenoon
that every scar and wrinkle of the hillside were faithfully
reflected. After that I crossed a low pass to the head of another
sea-lock, and, following the map, struck over the shoulder of a great
hill and ate my luncheon far up on its side, with a wonderful vista
of wood and water below me.

All that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson or
Ivery, but getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my lungs
filled with the brisk hill air. But I noticed one curious thing. On
my last visit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles a day
than any man since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the land,
and had pleased myself with plans for settling down in it. But now,
after three years of war and general rocketing, I felt less drawn to
that kind of landscape. I wanted something more green and peaceful
and habitable, and it was to the Cotswolds that my memory turned with
longing.

I puzzled over this till I realized that in all my Cotswold
pictures a figure kept going and coming - a young girl with a cloud
of gold hair and the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung
'Cherry Ripe' in a moonlit garden. Up on that hillside I understood
very clearly that I, who had been as careless of women as any monk,
had fallen wildly in love with a child of half my age. I was loath
to admit it, though for weeks the conclusion had been forcing itself
on me. Not that I didn't revel in my madness, but that it seemed too
hopeless a business, and I had no use for barren philandering. But,
seated on a rock munching chocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the
fact and resolved to trust my luck. After all we were comrades in a
big job, and it was up to me to be man enough to win her. The
thought seemed to brace any courage that was in me. No task seemed
too hard with her approval to gain and her companionship somewhere at
the back of it. I sat for a long time in a happy dream, remembering
all the glimpses I had had of her, and humming her song to an
audience of one black-faced sheep.

On the highroad half a mile below me, I saw a figure on a
bicycle mounting the hill, and then getting off to mop its face at
the summit. I turned my Ziess glasses on to it, and observed that it
was a country policeman. It caught sight of me, stared for a bit,
tucked its machine into the side of the road, and then very slowly
began to climb the hillside. Once it stopped, waved its hand and
shouted something which I could not hear. I sat finishing my
luncheon, till the features were revealed to me of a fat oldish man,
blowing like a grampus, his cap well on the back of a bald head, and
his trousers tied about the shins with string.

There was a spring beside me and I had out my flask to round off
my meal.

'Have a drink,' I said.

His eye brightened, and a smile overran his moist face.

'Thank you, sir. It will be very warrm coming up the brae.'

'You oughtn't to,' I said. 'You really oughtn't, you know.
Scorching up hills and then doubling up a mountain are not good for
your time of life.'

He raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. 'Your very
good health.' Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of
water from the spring.

'You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?' he said in his
soft sing-song, having at last found his breath.

'Just so. Fine weather for the birds, if there was anybody to
shoot them.'

'Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no
gentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come from
Achranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.'

From his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky
telegraph form. 'Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my
spectacles?'

It contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a
suspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and return
to Oban. The description wasn't bad, but it lacked any one good
distinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent
pedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box, with my
brown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.

I frowned and puzzled a little. 'I did see a fellow about three
miles back on the hillside. There's a public-house just where the
burn comes in, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was your
man. This wire says "South African"; and now I remember the fellow
had the look of a colonial.'

The policeman sighed. 'No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he
will haf a pistol and will shoot.'

'Not him,' I laughed. 'He looked a mangy sort of chap, and
he'll be scared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my
advice and get somebody with you before you tackle him. You're
always the better of a witness.'

'That is so,' he said, brightening. 'Ach, these are the bad
times! in old days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at
the flower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout.
But now it is spies, spies, and "Donald, get out of your bed, and go
off twenty mile to find a German." I wass wishing the war wass by,
and the Germans all dead.'

'Hear, hear!' I cried, and on the strength of it gave him
another dram.

I accompanied him to the road, and saw him mount his bicycle and
zig-zag like a snipe down the hill towards Achranich. Then I set off
briskly northward. It was clear that the faster I moved the
better.

As I went I paid disgusted tribute to the efficiency of the
Scottish police. I wondered how on earth they had marked me down.
Perhaps it was the Glasgow meeting, or perhaps my association with
Ivery at Biggleswick. Anyhow there was somebody somewhere mighty
quick at compiling a dossier. Unless I wanted to be bundled back to
Oban I must make good speed to the Arisaig coast.

Presently the road fell to a gleaming sea-loch which lay like
the blue blade of a sword among the purple of the hills. At the head
there was a tiny clachan, nestled among birches and rowans, where a
tawny burn wound to the sea. When I entered the place it was about
four o'clock in the afternoon, and peace lay on it like a garment.
In the wide, sunny street there was no sign of life, and no sound
except of hens clucking and of bees busy among the roses. There was a
little grey box of a kirk, and close to the bridge a thatched cottage
which bore the sign of a post and telegraph office.

For the past hour I had been considering that I had better
prepare for mishaps. If the police of these parts had been warned
they might prove too much for me, and Gresson would be allowed to
make his journey unmatched. The only thing to do was to send a wire
to Amos and leave the matter in his hands. Whether that was possible
or not depended upon this remote postal authority.

I entered the little shop, and passed from bright sunshine to a
twilight smelling of paraffin and black-striped peppermint balls. An
old woman with a mutch sat in an arm-chair behind the counter. She
looked up at me over her spectacles and smiled, and I took to her on
the instant. She had the kind of old wise face that God loves.

Beside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a
Bible. Open on her lap was a paper, the United Free Church Monthly.
I noticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on the
part to play.

'It's a warm day, mistress,' I said, my voice falling into the
broad Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the
Highlands.

She laid aside her paper. 'It is that, sir. It is grand
weather for the hairst, but here that's no till the hinner end o'
September, and at the best it's a bit scart o' aits.'

'Ay. It's a different thing down Annandale way,' I said.

Her face lit up. 'Are ye from Dumfries, sir?'

'Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.'

'Ye'll no beat them,' she cried. 'Not that this is no a guid
place and I've muckle to be thankfu' for since John Sanderson - that
was ma man - brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas.
But the aulder I get the mair I think o' the bit whaur I was born.
It was twae miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they tell
me the place is noo just a rickle o' stanes.'

'I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in the
village.'

'Ye'll hae a cup wi' me,' she said. 'It's no often we see
onybody frae the Borders hereaways. The kettle's just on the
boil.'

She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam,
and treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we
talked of many things - chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of
the world.

'There's nae lads left here,' she said. 'They a' joined the
Camerons, and the feck o' them fell at an awfu' place called Lowse.
John and me never had no boys, jist the one lassie that's married on
Donald Frew, the Strontian carrier. I used to vex mysel' about it,
but now I thank the Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow. But
I wad hae liked to have had one laddie fechtin' for his country. I
whiles wish I was a Catholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers
that are deid. It maun be a great consolation.'

I whipped out the Pilgrim's Progress from my pocket. 'That is
the grand book for a time like this.'

'Fine I ken it,' she said. 'I got it for a prize in the Sabbath
School when I was a lassie.'

I turned the pages. I read out a passage or two, and then I
seemed struck with a sudden memory.

'This is a telegraph office, mistress. Could I trouble you to
send a telegram? You see I've a cousin that's a minister in
Ross-shire at the Kyle, and him and me are great correspondents. He
was writing about something in the Pilgrim's Progress and I think
I'll send him a telegram in answer.'

'A letter would be cheaper,' she said.

'Ay, but I'm on holiday and I've no time for writing.'

She gave me a form, and I wrote:

ochterlony. Post Office, Kyle. - Demas will be at his
mine within the week. Strive with him, lest I faint by the
way. 'Ye're unco lavish wi' the words, sir,' was her only
comment.

We parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried
to pay for the tea. I was bidden remember her to one David Tudhole,
farmer in Nether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.

The village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered.
I took my way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the
telegram, and I hoped I had covered my tracks. My friend the
postmistress would, if questioned, be unlikely to recognize any South
African suspect in the frank and homely traveller who had spoken with
her of Annandale and the Pilgrim's Progress.

The soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to
fall on the hills. I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to
the next village on the map, where I might find quarters. But ere I
had gone far I heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car
slipped past bearing three men. The driver favoured me with a sharp
glance, and clapped on the brakes. I noted that the two men in the
tonneau were carrying sporting rifles.

' Hi, you, sir,' he cried. 'Come here.' The two rifle-bearers
- solemn gillies - brought their weapons to attention.

'By God,' he said, 'it's the man. What's your name? Keep him
covered, Angus.'

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of
their wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as
myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a
very stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland
Scots for me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards'
battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat
on his small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric
blue eyes. I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment
or cavalry, old style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

'Middle height - strongly built - grey tweeds - brown hat -
speaks with a colonial accent - much sunburnt. What's your name,
sir?'

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of
the British officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him
again what the devil he had to do with my business. This made him
angry and he began to stammer.

'I'll teach you what I have to do with it. I'm a
deputy-lieutenant of this county, and I have Admiralty instructions
to watch the coast. Damn it, sir, I've a wire here from the Chief
Constable describing you. You're Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and
we want to know what the devil you're doing here.'

As I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not
have held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. if I
irritated him he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me up
for hours. So my voice became respectful.

'I beg your pardon, sir, but I've not been accustomed to be
pulled up suddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is
Blaikie, Captain Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I'm home on
three weeks' leave, to get a little peace after Hooge. We were only
hauled out five days ago.' I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock
hospital at Isham would pardon my borrowing his identity.

The man looked puzzled. 'How the devil am I to be satisfied
about that? Have you any papers to prove it?'

'Why, no. I don't carry passports about with me on a walking
tour. But you can wire to the depot, or to my London address.'

He pulled at his yellow moustache. 'I'm hanged if I know what
to do. I want to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I'll
take you on with me and put you up for the night. My boy's at home,
convalescing, and if he says you're pukka I'll ask your pardon and
give you a dashed good bottle of port. I'll trust him and I warn you
he's a keen hand.'

There was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him
with an uneasy conscience. Supposing the son knew the real Blaikie!
I asked the name of the boy's battalion, and was told the 10th
Seaforths. That wasn't pleasant hearing, for they had been brigaded
with us on the Somme. But Colonel Broadbury - for he told me his
name - volunteered another piece of news which set my mind at rest.
The boy was not yet twenty, and had only been out seven months. At
Arras he had got a bit of shrapnel in his thigh, which had played the
deuce with the sciatic nerve, and he was still on crutches.

We spun over ridges of moorland, always keeping northward, and
brought up at a pleasant white-washed house close to the sea. Colonel
Broadbury ushered me into a hall where a small fire of peats was
burning, and on a couch beside it lay a slim, pale-faced young man.
He had dropped his policeman's manner, and behaved like a gentleman.
'Ted,' he said, 'I've brought a friend home for the night. I went
out to look for a suspect and found a British officer. This is
Captain Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers.'

The boy looked at me pleasantly. 'I'm very glad to meet you,
sir. You'll excuse me not getting up, but I've got a game leg.' He
was the copy of his father in features, but dark and sallow where the
other was blond. He had just the same narrow head, and stubborn
mouth, and honest, quick-tempered eyes. It is the type that makes
dashing regimental officers, and earns V.C.s, and gets done in
wholesale. I was never that kind. I belonged to the school of the
cunning cowards.

In the half-hour before dinner the last wisp of suspicion fled
from my host's mind. For Ted Broadbury and I were immediately deep
in 'shop'. I had met most of his senior officers, and I knew all
about their doings at Arras, for his brigade had been across the
river on my left. We fought the great fight over again, and yarned
about technicalities and slanged the Staff in the way young officers
have, the father throwing in questions that showed how mighty proud
he was of his son. I had a bath before dinner, and as he led me to
the bathroom he apologized very handsomely for his bad manners.
'Your coming's been a godsend for Ted. He was moping a bit in this
place. And, though I say it that shouldn't, he's a dashed good
boy.'

I had my promised bottle of port, and after dinner I took on the
father at billiards. Then we settled in the smoking-room, and I laid
myself out to entertain the pair. The result was that they would
have me stay a week, but I spoke of the shortness of my leave, and
said I must get on to the railway and then back to Fort William for
my luggage.

So I spent that night between clean sheets, and ate a Christian
breakfast, and was given my host's car to set me a bit on the road.
I dismissed it after half a dozen miles, and, following the map,
struck over the hills to the west. About midday I topped a ridge,
and beheld the Sound of Sleat shining beneath me. There were other
things in the landscape. In the valley on the right a long goods
train was crawling on the Mallaig railway. And across the strip of
sea, like some fortress of the old gods, rose the dark bastions and
turrets of the hills of Skye.