I wasn’t. The confounded rocks of the Coolin had left their mark on my shoes, which moreover had not been cleaned for a week, and the same hills had rent my jacket at the shoulders, and torn my trousers above the right knee, and stained every part of my apparel with peat and lichen2.
I cast myself on the bank beside Amos and lit my pipe. ‘Did you get my message?’ I asked.
‘Ay. It’s gone on by a sure hand to the destination we ken3 of. Ye’ve managed well, Mr Brand, but I wish ye were back in London.’ He sucked at his pipe, and the shaggy brows were pulled so low as to hide the wary4 eyes. Then he proceeded to think aloud.
‘Ye canna go back by Mallaig. I don’t just understand why, but they’re lookin’ for you down that line. It’s a vexatious business when your friends, meanin’ the polis, are doing their best to upset your plans and you no able to enlighten them. I could send word to the Chief Constable5 and get ye through to London without a stop like a load of fish from Aiberdeen, but that would be spoilin’ the fine character ye’ve been at such pains to construct. Na, na! Ye maun take the risk and travel by Muirtown without ony creedentials.’
‘It can’t be a very big risk,’ I interpolated.
‘I’m no so sure. Gresson’s left the Tobermory. He went by here yesterday, on the Mallaig boat, and there was a wee blackavised man with him that got out at the Kyle. He’s there still, stoppin’ at the hotel. They ca’ him Linklater and he travels in whisky. I don’t like the looks of him.’
‘But Gresson does not suspect me?’
‘Maybe no. But ye wouldna like him to see ye hereaways. Yon gentry6 don’t leave muckle to chance. Be very certain that every man in Gresson’s lot kens7 all about ye, and has your description down to the mole8 on your chin.’
‘Then they’ve got it wrong,’ I replied.
‘I was speakin’ feeguratively,’ said Amos. ‘I was considerin’ your case the feck of yesterday, and I’ve brought the best I could do for ye in the gig. I wish ye were more respectable clad, but a good topcoat will hide defeecencies.’
From behind the gig’s seat he pulled out an ancient Gladstone bag and revealed its contents. There was a bowler9 of a vulgar and antiquated10 style; there was a ready-made overcoat of some dark cloth, of the kind that a clerk wears on the road to the office; there was a pair of detachable celluloid cuffs11, and there was a linen12 collar and dickie. Also there was a small handcase, such as bagmen carry on their rounds.
‘That’s your luggage,’ said Amos with pride. ‘That wee bag’s full of samples. Ye’ll mind I took the precaution of measurin’ ye in Glasgow, so the things’ll fit. Ye’ve got a new name, Mr Brand, and I’ve taken a room for ye in the hotel on the strength of it. Ye’re Archibald McCaskie, and ye’re travellin’ for the firm o’ Todd, Sons & Brothers, of Edinburgh. Ye ken the folk? They publish wee releegious books, that ye’ve bin13 trying to sell for Sabbath-school prizes to the Free Kirk ministers in Skye.’
The notion amused Amos, and he relapsed into the sombre chuckle14 which with him did duty for a laugh.
I put my hat and waterproof15 in the bag and donned the bowler and the top-coat. They fitted fairly well. Likewise the cuffs and collar, though here I struck a snag, for I had lost my scarf somewhere in the Coolin, and Amos, pelican-like, had to surrender the rusty16 black tie which adorned17 his own person. It was a queer rig, and I felt like nothing on earth in it, but Amos was satisfied.
‘Mr McCaskie, sir,’ he said, ‘ye’re the very model of a publisher’s traveller. Ye’d better learn a few biographical details, which ye’ve maybe forgotten. Ye’re an Edinburgh man, but ye were some years in London, which explains the way ye speak. Ye bide18 at 6, Russell Street, off the Meadows, and ye’re an elder in the Nethergate U.F. Kirk. Have ye ony special taste ye could lead the crack on to, if ye’re engaged in conversation?’
I suggested the English classics.
‘And very suitable. Ye can try poalitics, too. Ye’d better be a Free-trader but convertit by Lloyd George. That’s a common case, and ye’ll need to be by-ordinar common . . . If I was you, I would daunder about here for a bit, and no arrive at your hotel till after dark. Then ye can have your supper and gang to bed. The Muirtown train leaves at half-seven in the morning . . . Na, ye can’t come with me. It wouldna do for us to be seen thegither. If I meet ye in the street I’ll never let on I know ye.’
Amos climbed into the gig and jolted19 off home. I went down to the shore and sat among the rocks, finishing about tea-time the remains20 of my provisions. In the mellow21 gloaming I strolled into the clachan and got a boat to put me over to the inn. It proved to be a comfortable place, with a motherly old landlady22 who showed me to my room and promised ham and eggs and cold salmon23 for supper. After a good wash, which I needed, and an honest attempt to make my clothes presentable, I descended24 to the meal in a coffee-room lit by a single dim parafin lamp.
The food was excellent, and, as I ate, my spirits rose. In two days I should be back in London beside Blenkiron and somewhere within a day’s journey of Mary. I could picture no scene now without thinking how Mary fitted into it. For her sake I held Biggleswick delectable25, because I had seen her there. I wasn’t sure if this was love, but it was something I had never dreamed of before, something which I now hugged the thought of. It made the whole earth rosy26 and golden for me, and life so well worth living that I felt like a miser27 towards the days to come.
I had about finished supper, when I was joined by another guest. Seen in the light of that infamous28 lamp, he seemed a small, alert fellow, with a bushy, black moustache, and black hair parted in the middle. He had fed already and appeared to be hungering for human society.
In three minutes he had told me that he had come down from Portree and was on his way to Leith. A minute later he had whipped out a card on which I read ‘J. J. Linklater’, and in the corner the name of Hatherwick Bros. His accent betrayed that he hailed from the west.
‘I’ve been up among the distilleries,’ he informed me. ‘It’s a poor business distillin’ in these times, wi’ the teetotallers yowlin’ about the nation’s shame and the way to lose the war. I’m a temperate29 man mysel’, but I would think shame to spile decent folks’ business. If the Government want to stop the drink, let them buy us out. They’ve permitted us to invest good money in the trade, and they must see that we get it back. The other way will wreck30 public credit. That’s what I say. Supposin’ some Labour Government takes the notion that soap’s bad for the nation? Are they goin’ to shut up Port Sunlight? Or good clothes? Or lum hats? There’s no end to their daftness if they once start on that track. A lawfu’ trade’s a lawfu’ trade, says I, and it’s contrary to public policy to pit it at the mercy of wheen cranks. D’ye no agree, sir? By the way, I havena got your name?’
I told him and he rambled31 on.
‘We’re blenders and do a very high-class business, mostly foreign. The war’s hit us wi’ our export trade, of course, but we’re no as bad as some. What’s your line, Mr McCaskie?’
When he heard he was keenly interested.
‘D’ye say so? Ye’re from Todd’s! Man, I was in the book business mysel’, till I changed it for something a wee bit more lucrative32. I was on the road for three years for Andrew Matheson. Ye ken the name — Paternoster Row — I’ve forgotten the number. I had a kind of ambition to start a book-sellin’ shop of my own and to make Linklater o’ Paisley a big name in the trade. But I got the offer from Hatherwick’s, and I was wantin’ to get married, so filthy33 lucre34 won the day. And I’m no sorry I changed. If it hadna been for this war, I would have been makin’ four figures with my salary and commissions . . . My pipe’s out. Have you one of those rare and valuable curiosities called a spunk35, Mr McCaskie?’
He was a merry little grig of a man, and he babbled36 on, till I announced my intention of going to bed. If this was Amos’s bagman, who had been seen in company with Gresson, I understood how idle may be the suspicions of a clever man. He had probably foregathered with Gresson on the Skye boat, and wearied that saturnine37 soul with his cackle.
I was up betimes, paid my bill, ate a breakfast of porridge and fresh haddock, and walked the few hundred yards to the station. It was a warm, thick morning, with no sun visible, and the Skye hills misty38 to their base. The three coaches on the little train were nearly filled when I had bought my ticket, and I selected a third-class smoking carriage which held four soldiers returning from leave.
The train was already moving when a late passenger hurried along the platform and clambered in beside me. A cheery ‘Mornin’, Mr McCaskie,’ revealed my fellow guest at the hotel.
We jolted away from the coast up a broad glen and then on to a wide expanse of bog39 with big hills showing towards the north. It was a drowsy40 day, and in that atmosphere of shag and crowded humanity I felt my eyes closing. I had a short nap, and woke to find that Mr Linklater had changed his seat and was now beside me.
‘We’ll no get a Scotsman till Muirtown,’ he said. ‘Have ye nothing in your samples ye could give me to read?’
I had forgotten about the samples. I opened the case and found the oddest collection of little books, all in gay bindings. Some were religious, with names like Dew of Hermon and Cool Siloam; some were innocent narratives41, How Tommy saved his Pennies, A Missionary42 Child in China, and Little Susie and her Uncle. There was a Life of David Livingstone, a child’s book on sea-shells, and a richly gilt43 edition of the poems of one James Montgomery. I offered the selection to Mr Linklater, who grinned and chose the Missionary Child. ‘It’s not the reading I’m accustomed to,’ he said. ‘I like strong meat — Hall Caine and Jack1 London. By the way, how d’ye square this business of yours wi’ the booksellers? When I was in Matheson’s there would have been trouble if we had dealt direct wi’ the public like you.’
The confounded fellow started to talk about the details of the book trade, of which I knew nothing. He wanted to know on what terms we sold ‘juveniles’, and what discount we gave the big wholesalers, and what class of book we put out ‘on sale’. I didn’t understand a word of his jargon44, and I must have given myself away badly, for he asked me questions about firms of which I had never heard, and I had to make some kind of answer. I told myself that the donkey was harmless, and that his opinion of me mattered nothing, but as soon as I decently could I pretended to be absorbed in the Pilgrim’s Progress, a gaudy45 copy of which was among the samples. It opened at the episode of Christian46 and Hopeful in the Enchanted47 Ground, and in that stuffy48 carriage I presently followed the example of Heedless and Too–Bold and fell sound asleep. I was awakened49 by the train rumbling50 over the points of a little moorland junction52. Sunk in a pleasing lethargy, I sat with my eyes closed, and then covertly53 took a glance at my companion. He had abandoned the Missionary Child and was reading a little dun-coloured book, and marking passages with a pencil. His face was absorbed, and it was a new face, not the vacant, good-humoured look of the garrulous54 bagman, but something shrewd, purposeful, and formidable. I remained hunched55 up as if still sleeping, and tried to see what the book was. But my eyes, good as they are, could make out nothing of the text or title, except that I had a very strong impression that that book was not written in the English tongue.
I woke abruptly56, and leaned over to him. Quick as lightning he slid his pencil up his sleeve and turned on me with a fatuous57 smile.
‘What d’ye make o’ this, Mr McCaskie? It’s a wee book I picked up at a roup along with fifty others. I paid five shillings for the lot. It looks like Gairman, but in my young days they didna teach us foreign languages.’
I took the thing and turned over the pages, trying to keep any sign of intelligence out of my face. It was German right enough, a little manual of hydrography with no publisher’s name on it. It had the look of the kind of textbook a Government department might issue to its officials.
I handed it back. ‘It’s either German or Dutch. I’m not much of a scholar, barring a little French and the Latin I got at Heriot’s Hospital . . . This is an awful slow train, Mr Linklater.’
The soldiers were playing nap, and the bagman proposed a game of cards. I remembered in time that I was an elder in the Nethergate U.F. Church and refused with some asperity58. After that I shut my eyes again, for I wanted to think out this new phenomenon.
The fellow knew German — that was clear. He had also been seen in Gresson’s company. I didn’t believe he suspected me, though I suspected him profoundly. It was my business to keep strictly59 to my part and give him no cause to doubt me. He was clearly practising his own part on me, and I must appear to take him literally60 on his professions. So, presently, I woke up and engaged him in a disputatious conversation about the morality of selling strong liquors. He responded readily, and put the case for alcohol with much point and vehemence61. The discussion interested the soldiers, and one of them, to show he was on Linklater’s side, produced a flask62 and offered him a drink. I concluded by observing morosely63 that the bagman had been a better man when he peddled64 books for Alexander Matheson, and that put the closure on the business.
That train was a record. It stopped at every station, and in the afternoon it simply got tired and sat down in the middle of a moor51 and reflected for an hour. I stuck my head out of the window now and then, and smelt65 the rooty fragrance66 of bogs67, and when we halted on a bridge I watched the trout68 in the pools of the brown river. Then I slept and smoked alternately, and began to get furiously hungry.
Once I woke to hear the soldiers discussing the war. There was an argument between a lance-corporal in the Camerons and a sapper private about some trivial incident on the Somme.
‘I tell ye I was there,’ said the Cameron. ‘We were relievin’ the Black Watch, and Fritz was shelling the road, and we didna get up to the line till one o’clock in the mornin’. Frae Frickout Circus to the south end o’ the High Wood is every bit o’ five mile.’
‘Not abune three,’ said the sapper dogmatically.
‘Man, I’ve trampit it.’
‘Same here. I took up wire every nicht for a week.’
The Cameron looked moodily69 round the company. ‘I wish there was anither man here that kent the place. He wad bear me out. These boys are no good, for they didna join till later. I tell ye it’s five mile.’
‘Three,’ said the sapper.
Tempers were rising, for each of the disputants felt his veracity70 assailed71. It was too hot for a quarrel and I was so drowsy that I was heedless.
‘Shut up, you fools,’ I said. ‘The distance is six kilometres, so you’re both wrong.’
My tone was so familiar to the men that it stopped the wrangle72, but it was not the tone of a publisher’s traveller. Mr Linklater cocked his ears.
‘What’s a kilometre, Mr McCaskie?’ he asked blandly73.
‘Multiply by five and divide by eight and you get the miles.’
I was on my guard now, and told a long story of a nephew who had been killed on the Somme, and how I had corresponded with the War Office about his case. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I’m a great student o’ the newspapers, and I’ve read all the books about the war. It’s a difficult time this for us all, and if you can take a serious interest in the campaign it helps a lot. I mean working out the places on the map and reading Haig’s dispatches.’
‘Just so,’ he said dryly, and I thought he watched me with an odd look in his eyes.
A fresh idea possessed74 me. This man had been in Gresson’s company, he knew German, he was obviously something very different from what he professed75 to be. What if he were in the employ of our own Secret Service? I had appeared out of the void at the Kyle, and I had made but a poor appearance as a bagman, showing no knowledge of my own trade. I was in an area interdicted76 to the ordinary public; and he had good reason to keep an eye on my movements. He was going south, and so was I; clearly we must somehow part company.
‘We change at Muirtown, don’t we?’ I asked. ‘When does the train for the south leave?’
He consulted a pocket timetable. ‘Ten-thirty-three. There’s generally four hours to wait, for we’re due in at six-fifteen. But this auld77 hearse will be lucky if it’s in by nine.’
His forecast was correct. We rumbled78 out of the hills into haughlands and caught a glimpse of the North Sea. Then we were hung up while a long goods train passed down the line. It was almost dark when at last we crawled into Muirtown station and disgorged our load of hot and weary soldiery.
I bade an ostentatious farewell to Linklater. ‘Very pleased to have met you. I’ll see you later on the Edinburgh train. I’m for a walk to stretch my legs, and a bite o’ supper.’ I was very determined79 that the ten-thirty for the south should leave without me.
My notion was to get a bed and a meal in some secluded80 inn, and walk out next morning and pick up a slow train down the line. Linklater had disappeared towards the guard’s van to find his luggage, and the soldiers were sitting on their packs with that air of being utterly81 and finally lost and neglected which characterizes the British fighting-man on a journey. I gave up my ticket and, since I had come off a northern train, walked unhindered into the town.
It was market night, and the streets were crowded. Blue-jackets from the Fleet, country-folk in to shop, and every kind of military detail thronged82 the pavements. Fish-hawkers were crying their wares83, and there was a tatterdemalion piper making the night hideous84 at a corner. I took a tortuous85 route and finally fixed86 on a modest-looking public-house in a back street. When I inquired for a room I could find no one in authority, but a slatternly girl informed me that there was one vacant bed, and that I could have ham and eggs in the bar. So, after hitting my head violently against a cross-beam, I stumbled down some steps and entered a frowsty little place smelling of spilt beer and stale tobacco.
The promised ham and eggs proved impossible — there were no eggs to be had in Muirtown that night — but I was given cold mutton and a pint87 of indifferent ale. There was nobody in the place but two farmers drinking hot whisky and water and discussing with sombre interest the rise in the price of feeding-stuffs. I ate my supper, and was just preparing to find the whereabouts of my bedroom when through the street door there entered a dozen soldiers.
In a second the quiet place became a babel. The men were strictly sober; but they were in that temper of friendliness88 which demands a libation of some kind. One was prepared to stand treat; he was the leader of the lot, and it was to celebrate the end of his leave that he was entertaining his pals89. From where I sat I could not see him, but his voice was dominant90. ‘What’s your fancy, jock? Beer for you, Andra? A pint and a dram for me. This is better than vongblong and vongrooge, Davie. Man, when I’m sittin’ in those estamints, as they ca’ them, I often long for a guid Scots public.’
The voice was familiar. I shifted my seat to get a view of the speaker, and then I hastily drew back. It was the Scots Fusilier I had clipped on the jaw91 in defending Gresson after the Glasgow meeting.
But by a strange fatality92 he had caught sight of me.
‘Whae’s that i’ the corner?’ he cried, leaving the bar to stare at me. Now it is a queer thing, but if you have once fought with a man, though only for a few seconds, you remember his face, and the scrap93 in Glasgow had been under a lamp. The jock recognized me well enough.
‘By God!’ he cried, ‘if this is no a bit o’ luck! Boys, here’s the man I feucht wi’ in Glesca. Ye mind I telled ye about it. He laid me oot, and it’s my turn to do the same wi’ him. I had a notion I was gaun to mak’ a nicht o’t. There’s naebody can hit Geordie Hamilton without Geordie gettin’ his ain back some day. Get up, man, for I’m gaun to knock the heid off ye.’
I duly got up, and with the best composure I could muster94 looked him in the face.
‘You’re mistaken, my friend. I never clapped eyes on you before, and I never was in Glasgow in my life.’
‘That’s a damned lee,’ said the Fusilier. ‘Ye’re the man, and if ye’re no, ye’re like enough him to need a hidin’!’
‘Confound your nonsense!’ I said. ‘I’ve no quarrel with you, and I’ve better things to do than be scrapping95 with a stranger in a public-house.’
‘Have ye sae? Well, I’ll learn ye better. I’m gaun to hit ye, and then ye’ll hae to fecht whether ye want it or no. Tam, haud my jacket, and see that my drink’s no skailed.’
This was an infernal nuisance, for a row here would bring in the police, and my dubious96 position would be laid bare. I thought of putting up a fight, for I was certain I could lay out the jock a second time, but the worst of that was that I did not know where the thing would end. I might have to fight the lot of them, and that meant a noble public shindy. I did my best to speak my opponent fair. I said we were all good friends and offered to stand drinks for the party. But the Fusilier’s blood was up and he was spoiling for a row, ably abetted97 by his comrades. He had his tunic98 off now and was stamping in front of me with doubled fists.
I did the best thing I could think of in the circumstances. My seat was close to the steps which led to the other part of the inn. I grabbed my hat, darted99 up them, and before they realized what I was doing had bolted the door behind me. I could hear pandemonium100 break loose in the bar.
I slipped down a dark passage to another which ran at right angles to it, and which seemed to connect the street door of the inn itself with the back premises101. I could hear voices in the little hall, and that stopped me short.
One of them was Linklater’s, but he was not talking as Linklater had talked. He was speaking educated English. I heard another with a Scots accent, which I took to be the landlord’s, and a third which sounded like some superior sort of constable’s, very prompt and official. I heard one phrase, too, from Linklater —‘He calls himself McCaskie.’ Then they stopped, for the turmoil102 from the bar had reached the front door. The Fusilier and his friends were looking for me by the other entrance.
The attention of the men in the hall was distracted, and that gave me a chance. There was nothing for it but the back door. I slipped through it into a courtyard and almost tumbled over a tub of water. I planted the thing so that anyone coming that way would fall over it. A door led me into an empty stable, and from that into a lane. It was all absurdly easy, but as I started down the lane I heard a mighty103 row and the sound of angry voices. Someone had gone into the tub and I hoped it was Linklater. I had taken a liking104 to the Fusilier jock.
There was the beginning of a moon somewhere, but that lane was very dark. I ran to the left, for on the right it looked like a cul-de-sac. This brought me into a quiet road of two-storied cottages which showed at one end the lights of a street. So I took the other way, for I wasn’t going to have the whole population of Muirtown on the hue-and-cry after me. I came into a country lane, and I also came into the van of the pursuit, which must have taken a short cut. They shouted when they saw me, but I had a small start, and legged it down that road in the belief that I was making for open country.
That was where I was wrong. The road took me round to the other side of the town, and just when I was beginning to think I had a fair chance I saw before me the lights of a signal-box and a little to the left of it the lights of the station. In half an hour’s time the Edinburgh train would be leaving, but I had made that impossible. Behind me I could hear the pursuers, giving tongue like hound puppies, for they had attracted some pretty drunken gentlemen to their party. I was badly puzzled where to turn, when I noticed outside the station a long line of blurred105 lights, which could only mean a train with the carriage blinds down. It had an engine attached and seemed to be waiting for the addition of a couple of trucks to start. It was a wild chance, but the only one I saw. I scrambled106 across a piece of waste ground, climbed an embankment and found myself on the metals. I ducked under the couplings and got on the far side of the train, away from the enemy.
Then simultaneously107 two things happened. I heard the yells of my pursuers a dozen yards off, and the train jolted into motion. I jumped on the footboard, and looked into an open window. The compartment108 was packed with troops, six a side and two men sitting on the floor, and the door was locked. I dived headforemost through the window and landed on the neck of a weary warrior109 who had just dropped off to sleep.
While I was falling I made up my mind on my conduct. I must be intoxicated110, for I knew the infinite sympathy of the British soldier towards those thus overtaken. They pulled me to my feet, and the man I had descended on rubbed his skull111 and blasphemously112 demanded explanations.
‘Gen’lmen,’ I hiccoughed, ‘I ‘pologize. I was late for this bl-blighted train and I mus’ be in E’inburgh ‘morrow or I’ll get the sack. I ‘pologize. If I’ve hurt my friend’s head, I’ll kiss it and make it well.’
At this there was a great laugh. ‘Ye’d better accept, Pete,’ said one. ‘It’s the first time anybody ever offered to kiss your ugly heid.’
A man asked me who I was, and I appeared to be searching for a card-case.
‘Losht,’ I groaned113. ‘Losht, and so’s my wee bag and I’ve bashed my po’ hat. I’m an awful sight, gen’lmen — an awful warning to be in time for trains. I’m John Johnstone, managing clerk to Messrs Watters, Brown & Elph’stone, 923 Charl’tte Street, E’inburgh. I’ve been up north seein’ my mamma.’
‘Ye should be in France,’ said one man.
‘Wish’t I was, but they wouldn’t let me. “Mr Johnstone,” they said, “ye’re no dam good. Ye’ve varicose veins114 and a bad heart,” they said. So I says, “Good mornin’, gen’lmen. Don’t blame me if the country’s ru’ned”. That’s what I said.’
I had by this time occupied the only remaining space left on the floor. With the philosophy of their race the men had accepted my presence, and were turning again to their own talk. The train had got up speed, and as I judged it to be a special of some kind I looked for few stoppings. Moreover it was not a corridor carriage, but one of the old-fashioned kind, so I was safe for a time from the unwelcome attention of conductors. I stretched my legs below the seat, rested my head against the knees of a brawny115 gunner, and settled down to make the best of it.
My reflections were not pleasant. I had got down too far below the surface, and had the naked feeling you get in a dream when you think you have gone to the theatre in your nightgown. I had had three names in two days, and as many characters. I felt as if I had no home or position anywhere, and was only a stray dog with everybody’s hand and foot against me. It was an ugly sensation, and it was not redeemed116 by any acute fear or any knowledge of being mixed up in some desperate drama. I knew I could easily go on to Edinburgh, and when the police made trouble, as they would, a wire to Scotland Yard would settle matters in a couple of hours. There wasn’t a suspicion of bodily danger to restore my dignity. The worst that could happen would be that Ivery would hear of my being befriended by the authorities, and the part I had settled to play would be impossible. He would certainly hear. I had the greatest respect for his intelligence service.
Yet that was bad enough. So far I had done well. I had put Gresson off the scent117. I had found out what Bullivant wanted to know, and I had only to return unostentatiously to London to have won out on the game. I told myself all that, but it didn’t cheer my spirits. I was feeling mean and hunted and very cold about the feet.
But I have a tough knuckle118 of obstinacy119 in me which makes me unwilling120 to give up a thing till I am fairly choked off it. The chances were badly against me. The Scottish police were actively121 interested in my movements and would be ready to welcome me at my journey’s end. I had ruined my hat, and my clothes, as Amos had observed, were not respectable. I had got rid of a four-days’ beard the night before, but had cut myself in the process, and what with my weather-beaten face and tangled122 hair looked liker a tinker than a decent bagman. I thought with longing123 of my portmanteau in the Pentland Hotel, Edinburgh, and the neat blue serge suit and the clean linen that reposed124 in it. It was no case for a subtle game, for I held no cards. Still I was determined not to chuck in my hand till I was forced to. If the train stopped anywhere I would get out, and trust to my own wits and the standing125 luck of the British Army for the rest.
The chance came just after dawn, when we halted at a little junction. I got up yawning and tried to open the door, till I remembered it was locked. Thereupon I stuck my legs out of the window on the side away from the platform, and was immediately seized upon by a sleepy Seaforth who thought I contemplated126 suicide.
‘Let me go,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘Let him gang, jock,’ said another voice. ‘Ye ken what a man’s like when he’s been on the bash. The cauld air’ll sober him.’
I was released, and after some gymnastics dropped on the metals and made my way round the rear of the train. As I clambered on the platform it began to move, and a face looked out of one of the back carriages. It was Linklater and he recognized me. He tried to get out, but the door was promptly127 slammed by an indignant porter. I heard him protest, and he kept his head out till the train went round the curve. That cooked my goose all right. He would wire to the police from the next station.
Meantime in that clean, bare, chilly128 place there was only one traveller. He was a slim young man, with a kit-bag and a gun-case. His clothes were beautiful, a green Homburg hat, a smart green tweed overcoat, and boots as brightly polished as a horse chestnut129. I caught his profile as he gave up his ticket and to my amazement130 I recognized it.
The station-master looked askance at me as I presented myself, dilapidated and dishevelled, to the official gaze. I tried to speak in a tone of authority.
‘Who is the man who has just gone out?’
‘Whaur’s your ticket?’
‘I had no time to get one at Muirtown, and as you see I have left my luggage behind me. Take it out of that pound and I’ll come back for the change. I want to know if that was Sir Archibald Roylance.’
He looked suspiciously at the note. ‘I think that’s the name. He’s a captain up at the Fleein’ School. What was ye wantin’ with him?’
I charged through the booking-office and found my man about to enter a big grey motor-car.
‘Archie,’ I cried and beat him on the shoulders.
He turned round sharply. ‘What the devil —! Who are you?’ And then recognition crept into his face and he gave a joyous131 shout. ‘My holy aunt! The General disguised as Charlie Chaplin! Can I drive you anywhere, sir?’
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收听单词发音
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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2
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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3
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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5
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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6
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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8
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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9
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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10
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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11
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12
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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13
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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14
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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15
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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16
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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18
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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19
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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21
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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22
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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23
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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24
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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25
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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26
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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27
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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28
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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29
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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30
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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31
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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32
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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34
lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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35
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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36
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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37
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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38
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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39
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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40
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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41
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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42
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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43
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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44
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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45
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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46
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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47
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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48
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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49
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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50
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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51
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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52
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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53
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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54
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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55
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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56
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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57
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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58
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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59
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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60
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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61
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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62
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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63
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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64
peddled
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| （沿街）叫卖( peddle的过去式和过去分词 )； 兜售； 宣传； 散播 | |
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65
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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66
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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67
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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68
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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69
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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70
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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71
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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72
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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73
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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74
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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75
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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76
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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77
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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78
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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79
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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80
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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81
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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84
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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85
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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86
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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87
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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88
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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89
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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90
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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91
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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92
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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93
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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94
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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95
scrapping
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| 刮，切除坯体余泥 | |
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96
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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97
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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98
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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99
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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100
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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101
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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102
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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103
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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104
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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105
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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106
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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107
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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108
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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109
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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110
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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111
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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112
blasphemously
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113
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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114
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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115
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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116
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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117
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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118
knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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119
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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120
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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121
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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122
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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123
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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124
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
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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126
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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127
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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128
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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129
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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130
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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131
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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