I walked from the station to the address which Blenkiron had given me. It was a hot summer evening, and the streets were filled with bareheaded women and weary-looking artisans. As I made my way down the Dumbarton Road I was amazed at the number of able-bodied fellows about, considering that you couldn’t stir a mile on any British front without bumping up against a Glasgow battalion6. Then I realized that there were such things as munitions7 and ships, and I wondered no more.
A stout8 and dishevelled lady at a close-mouth directed me to Mr Amos’s dwelling9. ‘Twa stairs up. Andra will be in noo, havin’ his tea. He’s no yin for overtime10. He’s generally hame on the chap of six.’ I ascended11 the stairs with a sinking heart, for like all South Africans I have a horror of dirt. The place was pretty filthy12, but at each landing there were two doors with well-polished handles and brass13 plates. On one I read the name of Andrew Amos.
A man in his shirt-sleeves opened to me, a little man, without a collar, and with an unbuttoned waistcoat. That was all I saw of him in the dim light, but he held out a paw like a gorilla’s and drew me in.
The sitting-room14, which looked over many chimneys to a pale yellow sky against which two factory stalks stood out sharply, gave me light enough to observe him fully15. He was about five feet four, broad-shouldered, and with a great towsy head of grizzled hair. He wore spectacles, and his face was like some old-fashioned Scots minister’s, for he had heavy eyebrows16 and whiskers which joined each other under his jaw17, while his chin and enormous upper lip were clean-shaven. His eyes were steely grey and very solemn, but full of smouldering energy. His voice was enormous and would have shaken the walls if he had not had the habit of speaking with half-closed lips. He had not a sound tooth in his head.
A saucer full of tea and a plate which had once contained ham and eggs were on the table. He nodded towards them and asked me if I had fed.
‘Ye’ll no eat onything? Well, some would offer ye a dram, but this house is staunch teetotal. I door ye’ll have to try the nearest public if ye’re thirsty.’
I disclaimed19 any bodily wants, and produced my pipe, at which he started to fill an old clay. ‘Mr Brand’s your name?’ he asked in his gusty20 voice. ‘I was expectin’ ye, but Dod! man ye’re late!’
He extricated21 from his trousers pocket an ancient silver watch, and regarded it with disfavour. ‘The dashed thing has stoppit. What do ye make the time, Mr Brand?’
He proceeded to prise open the lid of his watch with the knife he had used to cut his tobacco, and, as he examined the works, he turned the back of the case towards me. On the inside I saw pasted Mary Lamington’s purple-and-white wafer.
I held my watch so that he could see the same token. His keen eyes, raised for a second, noted22 it, and he shut his own with a snap and returned it to his pocket. His manner lost its wariness23 and became almost genial24.
‘Ye’ve come up to see Glasgow, Mr Brand? Well, it’s a steerin’ bit, and there’s honest folk bides25 in it, and some not so honest. They tell me ye’re from South Africa. That’s a long gait away, but I ken18 something aboot South Africa, for I had a cousin’s son oot there for his lungs. He was in a shop in Main Street, Bloomfountain. They called him Peter Dobson. Ye would maybe mind of him.’
Then he discoursed26 of the Clyde. He was an incomer, he told me, from the Borders, his native place being the town of Galashiels, or, as he called it, ‘Gawly’. ‘I began as a powerloom tuner in Stavert’s mill. Then my father dee’d and I took up his trade of jiner. But it’s no world nowadays for the sma’ independent business, so I cam to the Clyde and learned a shipwright’s job. I may say I’ve become a leader in the trade, for though I’m no an official of the union, and not likely to be, there’s no man’s word carries more weight than mine. And the Goavernment kens29 that, for they’ve sent me on commissions up and down the land to look at wuds and report on the nature of the timber. Bribery30, they think it is, but Andrew Amos is not to be bribit. He’ll have his say about any Goavernment on earth, and tell them to their face what he thinks of them. Ay, and he’ll fight the case of the workingman against his oppressor, should it be the Goavernment or the fatted calves31 they ca’ Labour Members. Ye’ll have heard tell o’ the shop stewards33, Mr Brand?’
I admitted I had, for I had been well coached by Blenkiron in the current history of industrial disputes.
‘Well, I’m a shop steward32. We represent the rank and file against office-bearers that have lost the confidence o’ the workingman. But I’m no socialist34, and I would have ye keep mind of that. I’m yin o’ the old Border radicals35, and I’m not like to change. I’m for individual liberty and equal rights and chances for all men. I’ll no more bow down before a Dagon of a Goavernment official than before the Baal of a feckless Tweedside laird. I’ve to keep my views to mysel’, for thae young lads are all drucken-daft with their wee books about Cawpital and Collectivism and a wheen long senseless words I wouldna fyle my tongue with. Them and their socialism! There’s more gumption37 in a page of John Stuart Mill than in all that foreign trash. But, as I say, I’ve got to keep a quiet sough, for the world is gettin’ socialism now like the measles38. It all comes of a defective39 eddication.’
‘And what does a Border radical36 say about the war?’ I asked.
He took off his spectacles and cocked his shaggy brows at me. ‘I’ll tell ye, Mr Brand. All that was bad in all that I’ve ever wrestled40 with since I cam to years o’ discretion41 — Tories and lairds and manufacturers and publicans and the Auld42 Kirk — all that was bad, I say, for there were orra bits of decency43, ye’ll find in the Germans full measure pressed down and running over. When the war started, I considered the subject calmly for three days, and then I said: “Andra Amos, ye’ve found the enemy at last. The ones ye fought before were in a manner o’ speakin’ just misguided friends. It’s either you or the Kaiser this time, my man!”’
His eyes had lost their gravity and had taken on a sombre ferocity. ‘Ay, and I’ve not wavered. I got a word early in the business as to the way I could serve my country best. It’s not been an easy job, and there’s plenty of honest folk the day will give me a bad name. They think I’m stirrin’ up the men at home and desertin’ the cause o’ the lads at the front. Man, I’m keepin’ them straight. If I didna fight their battles on a sound economic isshue, they would take the dorts and be at the mercy of the first blagyird that preached revolution. Me and my like are safety-valves, if ye follow me. And dinna you make ony mistake, Mr Brand. The men that are agitating44 for a rise in wages are not for peace. They’re fighting for the lads overseas as much as for themselves. There’s not yin in a thousand that wouldna sweat himself blind to beat the Germans. The Goavernment has made mistakes, and maun be made to pay for them. If it were not so, the men would feel like a moose in a trap, for they would have no way to make their grievance45 felt. What for should the big man double his profits and the small man be ill set to get his ham and egg on Sabbath mornin’? That’s the meaning o’ Labour unrest, as they call it, and it’s a good thing, says I, for if Labour didna get its leg over the traces now and then, the spunk46 o’ the land would be dead in it, and Hindenburg could squeeze it like a rotten aipple.’
I asked if he spoke47 for the bulk of the men.
‘For ninety per cent in ony ballot48. I don’t say that there’s not plenty of riff-raff — the pint-and-a-dram gentry49 and the soft-heads that are aye reading bits of newspapers, and muddlin’ their wits with foreign whigmaleeries. But the average man on the Clyde, like the average man in ither places, hates just three things, and that’s the Germans, the profiteers, as they call them, and the Irish. But he hates the Germans first.’
‘The Irish!’ I exclaimed in astonishment50.
‘Ay, the Irish,’ cried the last of the old Border radicals. ‘Glasgow’s stinkin’ nowadays with two things, money and Irish. I mind the day when I followed Mr Gladstone’s Home Rule policy, and used to threep about the noble, generous, warm-hearted sister nation held in a foreign bondage51. My Goad52! I’m not speakin’ about Ulster, which is a dour53, ill-natured den28, but our own folk all the same. But the men that will not do a hand’s turn to help the war and take the chance of our necessities to set up a bawbee rebellion are hateful to Goad and man. We treated them like pet lambs and that’s the thanks we get. They’re coming over here in thousands to tak the jobs of the lads that are doing their duty. I was speakin’ last week to a widow woman that keeps a wee dairy down the Dalmarnock Road. She has two sons, and both in the airmy, one in the Cameronians and one a prisoner in Germany. She was telling me that she could not keep goin’ any more, lacking the help of the boys, though she had worked her fingers to the bone. “Surely it’s a crool job, Mr Amos,” she says, “that the Goavernment should tak baith my laddies, and I’ll maybe never see them again, and let the Irish gang free and tak the bread frae our mouth. At the gasworks across the road they took on a hundred Irish last week, and every yin o’ them as young and well set up as you would ask to see. And my wee Davie, him that’s in Germany, had aye a weak chest, and Jimmy was troubled wi’ a bowel54 complaint. That’s surely no justice!”. . . . ’
He broke off and lit a match by drawing it across the seat of his trousers. ‘It’s time I got the gas lichtit. There’s some men coming here at half-ten.’
As the gas squealed55 and flickered56 in the lighting57, he sketched58 for me the coming guests. ‘There’s Macnab and Niven, two o’ my colleagues. And there’s Gilkison of the Boiler-fitters, and a lad Wilkie — he’s got consumption, and writes wee bits in the papers. And there’s a queer chap o’ the name o’ Tombs — they tell me he comes frae Cambridge, and is a kind of a professor there — anyway he’s more stuffed wi’ havers than an egg wi’ meat. He telled me he was here to get at the heart o’ the workingman, and I said to him that he would hae to look a bit further than the sleeve o’ the workin’-man’s jaicket. There’s no muckle in his head, poor soul. Then there’ll be Tam Norie, him that edits our weekly paper —Justice for All. Tam’s a humorist and great on Robert Burns, but he hasna the balance o’ a dwinin’ teetotum . . . Ye’ll understand, Mr Brand, that I keep my mouth shut in such company, and don’t express my own views more than is absolutely necessary. I criticize whiles, and that gives me a name of whunstane common-sense, but I never let my tongue wag. The feck o’ the lads comin’ the night are not the real workingman — they’re just the froth on the pot, but it’s the froth that will be useful to you. Remember they’ve heard tell o’ ye already, and ye’ve some sort o’ reputation to keep up.’
‘Will Mr Abel Gresson be here?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Him and me havena yet got to the point o’ payin’ visits. But the men that come will be Gresson’s friends and they’ll speak of ye to him. It’s the best kind of introduction ye could seek.’
The knocker sounded, and Mr Amos hastened to admit the first comers. These were Macnab and Wilkie: the one a decent middle-aged60 man with a fresh-washed face and a celluloid collar, the other a round-shouldered youth, with lank61 hair and the large eyes and luminous62 skin which are the marks of phthisis. ‘This is Mr Brand boys, from South Africa,’ was Amos’s presentation. Presently came Niven, a bearded giant, and Mr Norie, the editor, a fat dirty fellow smoking a rank cigar. Gilkison of the Boiler-fitters, when he arrived, proved to be a pleasant young man in spectacles who spoke with an educated voice and clearly belonged to a slightly different social scale. Last came Tombs, the Cambridge ‘professor, a lean youth with a sour mouth and eyes that reminded me of Launcelot Wake.
‘Ye’ll no be a mawgnate, Mr Brand, though ye come from South Africa,’ said Mr Norie with a great guffaw63.
‘Not me. I’m a working engineer,’ I said. ‘My father was from Scotland, and this is my first visit to my native country, as my friend Mr Amos was telling you.’
The consumptive looked at me suspiciously. ‘We’ve got two — three of the comrades here that the cawpitalist Government expelled from the Transvaal. If ye’re our way of thinking, ye will maybe ken them.’
I said I would be overjoyed to meet them, but that at the time of the outrage64 in question I had been working on a mine a thousand miles further north.
Then ensued an hour of extraordinary talk. Tombs in his sing-song namby-pamby University voice was concerned to get information. He asked endless questions, chiefly of Gilkison, who was the only one who really understood his language. I thought I had never seen anyone quite so fluent and so futile65, and yet there was a kind of feeble violence in him like a demented sheep. He was engaged in venting66 some private academic spite against society, and I thought that in a revolution he would be the class of lad I would personally conduct to the nearest lamp-post. And all the while Amos and Macnab and Niven carried on their own conversation about the affairs of their society, wholly impervious67 to the tornado68 raging around them.
It was Mr Norie, the editor, who brought me into the discussion.
‘Our South African friend is very blate,’ he said in his boisterous69 way. ‘Andra, if this place of yours wasn’t so damned teetotal and we had a dram apiece, we might get his tongue loosened. I want to hear what he’s got to say about the war. You told me this morning he was sound in the faith.’
‘I said no such thing,’ said Mr Amos. ‘As ye ken well, Tam Norie, I don’t judge soundness on that matter as you judge it. I’m for the war myself, subject to certain conditions that I’ve often stated. I know nothing of Mr Brand’s opinions, except that he’s a good democrat70, which is more than I can say of some o’ your friends.’
‘Hear to Andra,’ laughed Mr Norie. ‘He’s thinkin’ the inspector71 in the Socialist State would be a waur kind of awristocrat then the Duke of Buccleuch. Weel, there’s maybe something in that. But about the war he’s wrong. Ye ken my views, boys. This war was made by the cawpitalists, and it has been fought by the workers, and it’s the workers that maun have the ending of it. That day’s comin’ very near. There are those that want to spin it out till Labour is that weak it can be pit in chains for the rest o’ time. That’s the manoeuvre72 we’re out to prevent. We’ve got to beat the Germans, but it’s the workers that has the right to judge when the enemy’s beaten and not the cawpitalists. What do you say, Mr Brand?’
Mr Norie had obviously pinned his colours to the fence, but he gave me the chance I had been looking for. I let them have my views with a vengeance73, and these views were that for the sake of democracy the war must be ended. I flatter myself I put my case well, for I had got up every rotten argument and I borrowed largely from Launcelot Wake’s armoury. But I didn’t put it too well, for I had a very exact notion of the impression I wanted to produce. I must seem to be honest and in earnest, just a bit of a fanatic74, but principally a hard-headed businessman who knew when the time had come to make a deal. Tombs kept interrupting me with imbecile questions, and I had to sit on him. At the end Mr Norie hammered with his pipe on the table.
‘That’ll sort ye, Andra. Ye’re entertain’ an angel unawares. What do ye say to that, my man?’
Mr Amos shook his head. ‘I’ll no deny there’s something in it, but I’m not convinced that the Germans have got enough of a wheepin’.’ Macnab agreed with him; the others were with me. Norie was for getting me to write an article for his paper, and the consumptive wanted me to address a meeting.
‘Wull ye say a’ that over again the morn’s night down at our hall in Newmilns Street? We’ve got a lodge75 meeting o’ the I.W.B., and I’ll make them pit ye in the programme.’ He kept his luminous eyes, like a sick dog’s, fixed76 on me, and I saw that I had made one ally. I told him I had come to Glasgow to learn and not to teach, but I would miss no chance of testifying to my faith.
‘Now, boys, I’m for my bed,’ said Amos, shaking the dottle from his pipe. ‘Mr Tombs, I’ll conduct ye the morn over the Brigend works, but I’ve had enough clavers for one evening. I’m a man that wants his eight hours’ sleep.’
The old fellow saw them to the door, and came back to me with the ghost of a grin in his face.
‘A queer crowd, Mr Brand! Macnab didna like what ye said. He had a laddie killed in Gallypoly, and he’s no lookin’ for peace this side the grave. He’s my best friend in Glasgow. He’s an elder in the Gaelic kirk in the Cowcaddens, and I’m what ye call a free-thinker, but we’re wonderful agreed on the fundamentals. Ye spoke your bit verra well, I must admit. Gresson will hear tell of ye as a promising77 recruit.’
‘It’s a rotten job,’ I said.
‘Ay, it’s a rotten job. I often feel like vomiting78 over it mysel’. But it’s no for us to complain. There’s waur jobs oot in France for better men . . . A word in your ear, Mr Brand. Could ye not look a bit more sheepish? Ye stare folk ower straight in the een, like a Hieland sergeant-major up at Maryhill Barracks.’ And he winked79 slowly and grotesquely80 with his left eye.
He marched to a cupboard and produced a black bottle and glass. ‘I’m blue-ribbon myself, but ye’ll be the better of something to tak the taste out of your mouth. There’s Loch Katrine water at the pipe there . . . As I was saying, there’s not much ill in that lot. Tombs is a black offence, but a dominie’s a dominie all the world over. They may crack about their Industrial Workers and the braw things they’re going to do, but there’s a wholesome81 dampness about the tinder on Clydeside. They should try Ireland.’
Supposing,’ I said, ‘there was a really clever man who wanted to help the enemy. You think he could do little good by stirring up trouble in the shops here?’
‘I’m positive.’
‘And if he were a shrewd fellow, he’d soon tumble to that?’
‘Ay.’
‘Then if he still stayed on here he would be after bigger game — something really dangerous and damnable?’
Amos drew down his brows and looked me in the face. ‘I see what ye’re ettlin’ at. Ay! That would be my conclusion. I came to it weeks syne82 about the man ye’ll maybe meet the morn’s night.’
Then from below the bed he pulled a box from which he drew a handsome flute83. ‘Ye’ll forgive me, Mr Brand, but I aye like a tune27 before I go to my bed. Macnab says his prayers, and I have a tune on the flute, and the principle is just the same.’
So that singular evening closed with music — very sweet and true renderings84 of old Border melodies like ‘My Peggy is a young thing’, and ‘When the kye come hame’. I fell asleep with a vision of Amos, his face all puckered85 up at the mouth and a wandering sentiment in his eye, recapturing in his dingy86 world the emotions of a boy.
The widow-woman from next door, who acted as house-keeper, cook, and general factotum87 to the establishment, brought me shaving water next morning, but I had to go without a bath. When I entered the kitchen I found no one there, but while I consumed the inevitable88 ham and egg, Amos arrived back for breakfast. He brought with him the morning’s paper.
‘The Herald89 says there’s been a big battle at Eepers,’ he announced.
I tore open the sheet and read of the great attack of 31 July which was spoiled by the weather. ‘My God!’ I cried. ‘They’ve got St Julien and that dirty Frezenberg ridge59 . . . and Hooge . . . and Sanctuary90 Wood. I know every inch of the damned place. . . . ’
‘Mr Brand,’ said a warning voice, ‘that’ll never do. If our friends last night heard ye talk like that ye might as well tak the train back to London . . . They’re speakin’ about ye in the yards this morning. ye’ll get a good turnout at your meeting the night, but they’re Sayin’ that the polis will interfere91. That mightna be a bad thing, but I trust ye to show discretion, for ye’ll not be muckle use to onybody if they jyle ye in Duke Street. I hear Gresson will be there with a fraternal message from his lunatics in America . . . I’ve arranged that ye go down to Tam Norie this afternoon and give him a hand with his bit paper. Tam will tell ye the whole clash o’ the West country, and I look to ye to keep him off the drink. He’s aye arguin’ that writin’ and drinkin’ gang thegither, and quotin’ Robert Burns, but the creature has a wife and five bairns dependin’ on him.’
I spent a fantastic day. For two hours I sat in Norie’s dirty den, while he smoked and orated, and, when he remembered his business, took down in shorthand my impressions of the Labour situation in South Africa for his rag. They were fine breezy impressions, based on the most whole-hearted ignorance, and if they ever reached the Rand I wonder what my friends there made of Cornelius Brand, their author. I stood him dinner in an indifferent eating-house in a street off the Broomielaw, and thereafter had a drink with him in a public-house, and was introduced to some of his less reputable friends.
About tea-time I went back to Amos’s lodgings92, and spent an hour or so writing a long letter to Mr Ivery. I described to him everybody I had met, I gave highly coloured views of the explosive material on the Clyde, and I deplored93 the lack of clearheadedness in the progressive forces. I drew an elaborate picture of Amos, and deduced from it that the Radicals were likely to be a bar to true progress. ‘They have switched their old militancy,’ I wrote, ‘on to another track, for with them it is a matter of conscience to be always militant94.’ I finished up with some very crude remarks on economics culled95 from the table-talk of the egregious96 Tombs. It was the kind of letter which I hoped would establish my character in his mind as an industrious97 innocent.
Seven o’clock found me in Newmilns Street, where I was seized upon by Wilkie. He had put on a clean collar for the occasion and had partially98 washed his thin face. The poor fellow had a cough that shook him like the walls of a power-house when the dynamos are going.
He was very apologetic about Amos. ‘Andra belongs to a past worrld,’ he said. ‘He has a big reputation in his society, and he’s a fine fighter, but he has no kind of Vision, if ye understand me. He’s an auld Gladstonian, and that’s done and damned in Scotland. He’s not a Modern, Mr Brand, like you and me. But tonight ye’ll meet one or two chaps that’ll be worth your while to ken. Ye’ll maybe no go quite as far as them, but ye’re on the same road. I’m hoping for the day when we’ll have oor Councils of Workmen and Soldiers like the Russians all over the land and dictate99 our terms to the pawrasites in Pawrliament. They tell me, too, the boys in the trenches100 are comin’ round to our side.’
We entered the hall by a back door, and in a little waiting-room I was introduced to some of the speakers. They were a scratch lot as seen in that dingy place. The chairman was a shop-steward in one of the Societies, a fierce little rat of a man, who spoke with a cockney accent and addressed me as ‘Comrade’. But one of them roused my liveliest interest. I heard the name of Gresson, and turned to find a fellow of about thirty-five, rather sprucely dressed, with a flower in his buttonhole. ‘Mr Brand,’ he said, in a rich American voice which recalled Blenkiron’s. ‘Very pleased to meet you, sir. We have Come from remote parts of the globe to be present at this gathering101.’ I noticed that he had reddish hair, and small bright eyes, and a nose with a droop102 like a Polish Jew’s.
As soon as we reached the platform I saw that there was going to be trouble. The hall was packed to the door, and in all the front half there was the kind of audience I expected to see — working-men of the political type who before the war would have thronged103 to party meetings. But not all the crowd at the back had come to listen. Some were scallawags, some looked like better-class clerks out for a spree, and there was a fair quantity of khaki. There were also one or two gentlemen not strictly104 sober.
The chairman began by putting his foot in it. He said we were there tonight to protest against the continuation of the war and to form a branch of the new British Council of Workmen and Soldiers. He told them with a fine mixture of metaphors105 that we had got to take the reins106 into our own hands, for the men who were running the war had their own axes to grind and were marching to oligarchy107 through the blood of the workers. He added that we had no quarrel with Germany half as bad as we had with our own capitalists. He looked forward to the day when British soldiers would leap from their trenches and extend the hand of friendship to their German comrades.
‘No me!’ said a solemn voice. ‘I’m not seekin’ a bullet in my wame,’— at which there was laughter and cat-calls.
Tombs followed and made a worse hash of it. He was determined108 to speak, as he would have put it, to democracy in its own language, so he said ‘hell’ several times, loudly but without conviction. Presently he slipped into the manner of the lecturer, and the audience grew restless. ‘I propose to ask myself a question —’ he began, and from the back of the hall came —‘And a damned sully answer ye’ll get.’ After that there was no more Tombs.
I followed with extreme nervousness, and to my surprise got a fair hearing. I felt as mean as a mangy dog on a cold morning, for I hated to talk rot before soldiers — especially before a couple of Royal Scots Fusiliers, who, for all I knew, might have been in my own brigade. My line was the plain, practical, patriotic109 man, just come from the colonies, who looked at things with fresh eyes, and called for a new deal. I was very moderate, but to justify110 my appearance there I had to put in a wild patch or two, and I got these by impassioned attacks on the Ministry111 of Munitions. I mixed up a little mild praise of the Germans, whom I said I had known all over the world for decent fellows. I received little applause, but no marked dissent112, and sat down with deep thankfulness.
The next speaker put the lid on it. I believe he was a noted agitator113, who had already been deported114. Towards him there was no lukewarmness, for one half of the audience cheered wildly when he rose, and the other half hissed115 and groaned116. He began with whirlwind abuse of the idle rich, then of the middle-classes (he called them the ‘rich man’s flunkeys’), and finally of the Government. All that was fairly well received, for it is the fashion of the Briton to run down every Government and yet to be very averse117 to parting from it. Then he started on the soldiers and slanged the officers (‘gentry pups’ was his name for them), and the generals, whom he accused of idleness, of cowardice118, and of habitual119 intoxication120. He told us that our own kith and kin1 were sacrificed in every battle by leaders who had not the guts121 to share their risks. The Scots Fusiliers looked perturbed122, as if they were in doubt of his meaning. Then he put it more plainly. ‘Will any soldier deny that the men are the barrage123 to keep the officers’ skins whole?’
‘That’s a bloody124 lee,’ said one of the Fusilier jocks.
The man took no notice of the interruption, being carried away by the torrent125 of his own rhetoric126, but he had not allowed for the persistence127 of the interrupter. The jock got slowly to his feet, and announced that he wanted satisfaction. ‘If ye open your dirty gab128 to blagyird honest men, I’ll come up on the platform and wring129 your neck.’
At that there was a fine old row, some crying out ‘Order’, some ‘Fair play’, and some applauding. A Canadian at the back of the hall started a song, and there was an ugly press forward. The hall seemed to be moving up from the back, and already men were standing130 in all the passages and right to the edge of the platform. I did not like the look in the eyes of these new-comers, and among the crowd I saw several who were obviously plain-clothes policemen.
The chairman whispered a word to the speaker, who continued when the noise had temporarily died down. He kept off the army and returned to the Government, and for a little sluiced131 out pure anarchism. But he got his foot in it again, for he pointed132 to the Sinn Feiners as examples of manly133 independence. At that, pandemonium134 broke loose, and he never had another look in. There were several fights going on in the hall between the public and courageous135 supporters of the orator136.
Then Gresson advanced to the edge of the platform in a vain endeavour to retrieve137 the day. I must say he did it uncommonly138 well. He was clearly a practised speaker, and for a moment his appeal ‘Now, boys, let’s cool down a bit and talk sense,’ had an effect. But the mischief139 had been done, and the crowd was surging round the lonely redoubt where we sat. Besides, I could see that for all his clever talk the meeting did not like the look of him. He was as mild as a turtle dove, but they wouldn’t stand for it. A missile hurtled past my nose, and I saw a rotten cabbage envelop140 the baldish head of the ex-deportee. Someone reached out a long arm and grabbed a chair, and with it took the legs from Gresson. Then the lights suddenly went out, and we retreated in good order by the platform door with a yelling crowd at our heels.
It was here that the plain-clothes men came in handy. They held the door while the ex-deportee was smuggled141 out by some side entrance. That class of lad would soon cease to exist but for the protection of the law which he would abolish. The rest of us, having less to fear, were suffered to leak into Newmilns Street. I found myself next to Gresson, and took his arm. There was something hard in his coat pocket.
Unfortunately there was a big lamp at the point where we emerged, and there for our confusion were the Fusilier jocks. Both were strung to fighting pitch, and were determined to have someone’s blood. Of me they took no notice, but Gresson had spoken after their ire had been roused, and was marked out as a victim. With a howl of joy they rushed for him.
I felt his hand steal to his side-pocket. ‘Let that alone, you fool,’ I growled142 in his ear.
‘Sure, mister,’ he said, and the next second we were in the thick of it.
It was like so many street fights I have seen — an immense crowd which surged up around us, and yet left a clear ring. Gresson and I got against the wall on the side-walk, and faced the furious soldiery. My intention was to do as little as possible, but the first minute convinced me that my companion had no idea how to use his fists, and I was mortally afraid that he would get busy with the gun in his pocket. It was that fear that brought me into the scrap143. The jocks were sportsmen every bit of them, and only one advanced to the combat. He hit Gresson a clip on the jaw with his left, and but for the wall would have laid him out. I saw in the lamplight the vicious gleam in the American’s eye and the twitch144 of his hand to his pocket. That decided145 me to interfere and I got in front of him.
This brought the second jock into the fray146. He was a broad, thickset fellow, of the adorable bandy-legged stocky type that I had seen go through the Railway Triangle at Arras as though it were blotting-paper. He had some notion of fighting, too, and gave me a rough time, for I had to keep edging the other fellow off Gresson.
‘Go home, you fool,’ I shouted. ‘Let this gentleman alone. I don’t want to hurt you.’
The only answer was a hook-hit which I just managed to guard, followed by a mighty147 drive with his right which I dodged148 so that he barked his knuckles149 on the wall. I heard a yell of rage, and observed that Gresson seemed to have kicked his assailant on the shin. I began to long for the police.
Then there was that swaying of the crowd which betokens150 the approach of the forces of law and order. But they were too late to prevent trouble. In self-defence I had to take my jock seriously, and got in my blow when he had overreached himself and lost his balance. I never hit anyone so unwillingly151 in my life. He went over like a poled ox, and measured his length on the causeway.
I found myself explaining things politely to the constables152. ‘These men objected to this gentleman’s speech at the meeting, and I had to interfere to protect him. No, no! I don’t want to charge anybody. It was all a misunderstanding.’ I helped the stricken jock to rise and offered him ten bob for consolation153.
He looked at me sullenly154 and spat155 on the ground. ‘Keep your dirty money,’ he said. ‘I’ll be even with ye yet, my man — you and that red-headed scab. I’ll mind the looks of ye the next time I see ye.’
Gresson was wiping the blood from his cheek with a silk handkerchief. ‘I guess I’m in your debt, Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘You may bet I won’t forget it.’
I returned to an anxious Amos. He heard my story in silence and his only comment was —‘Well done the Fusiliers!’
‘It might have been worse, I’ll not deny,’ he went on. ‘Ye’ve established some kind of a claim upon Gresson, which may come in handy . . . Speaking about Gresson, I’ve news for ye. He’s sailing on Friday as purser in the Tobermory. The Tobermory’s a boat that wanders every month up the West Highlands as far as Stornoway. I’ve arranged for ye to take a trip on that boat, Mr Brand.’
I nodded. ‘How did you find out that?’ I asked.
‘It took me some finding,’ he said dryly, ‘but I’ve ways and means. Now I’ll not trouble ye with advice, for ye ken your job as well as me. But I’m going north myself the morn to look after some of the Ross-shire wuds, and I’ll be in the way of getting telegrams at the Kyle. Ye’ll keep that in mind. Keep in mind, too, that I’m a great reader of the Pilgrim’s Progress and that I’ve a cousin of the name of Ochterlony.’
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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2
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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3
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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5
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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7
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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9
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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10
overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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11
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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13
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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14
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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15
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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16
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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17
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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18
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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19
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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21
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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wariness
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| n. 注意,小心 | |
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24
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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25
bides
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| v.等待，停留( bide的第三人称单数 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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26
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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27
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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28
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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29
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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30
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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31
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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32
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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33
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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34
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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35
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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36
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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37
gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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38
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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39
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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40
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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41
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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42
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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43
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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44
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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45
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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46
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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47
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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49
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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50
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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51
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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52
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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53
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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54
bowel
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| n.肠(尤指人肠)；内部，深处 | |
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55
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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58
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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60
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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61
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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62
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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63
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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64
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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65
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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66
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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67
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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68
tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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69
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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70
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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71
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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72
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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73
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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74
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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75
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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76
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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77
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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78
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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79
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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80
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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81
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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82
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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83
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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84
renderings
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| n.（戏剧或乐曲的）演奏( rendering的名词复数 )；扮演；表演；翻译作品 | |
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85
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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87
factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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88
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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89
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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90
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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91
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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92
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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93
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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95
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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97
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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98
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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99
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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100
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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101
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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102
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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103
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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105
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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106
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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107
oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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108
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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109
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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110
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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111
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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112
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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113
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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114
deported
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 )；举止 | |
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115
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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116
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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117
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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118
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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119
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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120
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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121
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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122
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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124
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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125
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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126
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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127
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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128
gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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129
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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130
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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131
sluiced
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| v.冲洗( sluice的过去式和过去分词 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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132
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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133
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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134
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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135
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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136
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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137
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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138
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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139
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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140
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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141
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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142
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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143
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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144
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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148
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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149
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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150
betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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152
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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153
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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154
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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155
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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