<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></SPAN>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<p class="center">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND
RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION</p>
<p>At seven o'clock on the following morning the
post-cart, summoned by an early message from
Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it
sat the ancient postman, whose real home was
Auchenlochan, but who slept alternate nights in
Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper.
Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate,
the former with his pack on his back and at his feet
a small stout wooden box, of the kind in which
cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense
padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not
appear; at the moment he was crouched on the floor
of the loft watching the departure through a gap
in the dimity curtains.</p>
<p>The traveller, after making sure that Dobson
was looking, furtively slipped the key of the trunk
into his knapsack.</p>
<p>"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm
sure you've been awful kind to me, and I don't know
how to thank you for all you're sending."</p>
<p>"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk
about Glesca that'll be glad o' my scones and jeelie.
Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her man and haste
ye back soon."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart
and Dickson clambered into the back seat. He was
thankful that he had not to sit next to Dobson, for
he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning
was wet, so he wore his waterproof, which concealed
his odd tendency to stoutness about the middle.</p>
<p>Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the
becoming gravity of an affectionate aunt, but so soon
as the post-cart turned the bend of the road her
demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions
of silent laughter. She retreated to the kitchen,
sank into a chair, wrapped her face in her apron
and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her struggling
to regain composure. "D'ye ken his wife's
name?" she gasped. "I ca'ed her Mirren! And
maybe the body's no mairried! Hech sirs! Hech
sirs!"</p>
<p>Meantime Dickson was bumping along the moor-road
on the back of the post-cart. He had worked
out a plan, just as he had been used aforetime to
devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one
of the watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved
that it should be Dobson, whom he regarded as "the
most natural beast" of the three. Somehow he did
not think that he would be molested before he
reached the station, since his enemies would still be
undecided in their minds. Probably they only
wanted to make sure that he had really departed to
forget all about him. But if not, he had his plan
ready.</p>
<p>"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake
I'm expectin'. What's in your wee kist? Ye
came here wi' nothing but the bag on your back."</p>
<p>"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's
a kind body, and nothing would serve but she must
pack a box for me to take back. Let me see.
There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and
one of rhubarb jam—she was aye famous for her
rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which you can't get
for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made
black puddings and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt
I'll have to take a cab from the station."</p>
<p>Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe and
relapsed into meditation. The long uphill road,
ever climbing to where far off showed the tiny whitewashed
buildings which were the railway station,
seemed interminable this morning. The aged postman
addressed strange objurgations to his aged
horse and muttered reflections to himself, the innkeeper
smoked, and Dickson stared back into the
misty hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-west
wind had brought up a screen of rain clouds
and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey.
But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and
Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a
bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He wondered
who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no
bicycle. Perhaps some woman who was conspicuously
late for the train. Women were the chief
cyclists nowadays in country places.</p>
<p>Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his
neck to watch the station. It was less than a mile<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></SPAN></span>
off now, and they had no time to spare, for away
to the south among the hummocks of the bog he
saw the smoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan.
The postman also saw it and whipped up
his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always
nervous about being late for trains, forced his eyes
away and regarded again the road behind them.
Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain—a little
more than a mile behind—a man, and pedalling
furiously in spite of the stiff ascent.... It could
only be one person—L�on. He must have discovered
their visit to the House yesterday and be on
the way to warn Dobson. If he reached the station
before the train, there would be no journey to Glasgow
that day for one respectable citizen.</p>
<p>Dickson was in a fever of impatience and fright.
He dared not abjure the postman to hurry, lest
Dobson should turn his head and descry his colleague.
But that ancient man had begun to realise
the shortness of time and was urging the cart along
at a fair pace, since they were now on the flatter
shelf of land which carried the railway. Dickson
kept his eyes fixed on the bicycle and his teeth shut
tight on his lower lip. Now it was hidden by the
last dip of hill; now it emerged into view not a
quarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave vent to
a shrill call. Luckily the innkeeper did not hear,
for at that moment with a jolt the cart pulled up
at the station door, accompanied by the roar of the
incoming train.</p>
<p>Dickson whipped down from the back seat and
seized the solitary porter. "Label the box for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></SPAN></span>
Glasgow and into the van with it. Quick, man, and
there'll be a shilling for you." He had been doing
some rapid thinking these last minutes and had made
up his mind. If Dobson and he were alone in a
carriage he could not have the box there; that must
be elsewhere, so that Dobson could not examine it
if he were set on violence, somewhere in which it
could still be a focus of suspicion and attract attention
from his person. He took his ticket, and rushed
on to the platform, to find the porter and the box
at the door of the guard's van. Dobson was not
there. With the vigour of a fussy traveller he
shouted directions to the guard to take good care
of his luggage, hurled a shilling at the porter and
ran for a carriage. At that moment he became
aware of Dobson hurrying through the entrance.
He must have met L�on and heard news from him,
for his face was red and his ugly brows darkening.</p>
<p>The train was in motion. "Here, you!" Dobson's
voice shouted. "Stop! I want a word wi' ye."
Dickson plunged at a third-class carriage, for he saw
faces behind the misty panes, and above all things
then he feared an empty compartment. He clambered
on to the step, but the handle would not turn,
and with a sharp pang of fear he felt the innkeeper's
grip on his arm. Then some Samaritan
from within let down the window, opened the door
and pulled him up. He fell on a seat and a second
later Dobson staggered in beside him.</p>
<p>Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was
nearly full. There were two herds, each with a dog
and a long hazel crook, and an elderly woman who<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></SPAN></span>
looked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's marketing.
And there was one other whom Dickson
recognised with a peculiar joy—the bagman in the
provision line of business whom he had met three
days before at Kilchrist.</p>
<p>The recognition was mutual. "Mr. McCunn!"
the bagman exclaimed. "My, but that was running
it fine! I hope you've had a pleasant holiday, sir?"</p>
<p>"Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights
with friends down hereaways. I've been very fortunate
in the weather, for it has broke just when
I'm leaving."</p>
<p>Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had
been a near thing, but so far he had won. He
wished his heart did not beat so fast, and he hoped
he did not betray his disorder in his face. Very
deliberately he hunted for his pipe and filled it
slowly. Then he turned to Dobson. "I didn't
know you were travelling the day. What about
your oil-cake?"</p>
<p>"I've changed my mind," was the gruff answer.</p>
<p>"Was that you I heard crying on me, when we
were running for the train?"</p>
<p>"Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist."</p>
<p>"No fear," said Dickson. "I'm no' likely to
forget my auntie's scones."</p>
<p>He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the
bagman. Thereafter the compartment hummed
with the technicalities of the grocery trade. He
exerted himself to draw out his companion, to have
him refer to the great firm of D. McCunn, so that
the innkeeper might be ashamed of his suspicions.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></SPAN></span>
What nonsense to imagine that a noted and wealthy
Glasgow merchant—the bagman's tone was almost
reverential—would concern himself with the affairs
of a forgotten village and a tumbledown house!</p>
<p>Presently the train drew up at Kirkmichael station.
The woman descended, and Dobson, after
making sure that no one else meant to follow her
example, also left the carriage. A porter was shouting:
"Fast train to Glasgow—Glasgow next stop."
Dickson watched the innkeeper shoulder his way
through the crowd in the direction of the booking
office. "He's off to send a telegram," he decided.
"There'll be trouble waiting for me at the other
end."</p>
<p>When the train moved on he found himself disinclined
for further talk. He had suddenly become
meditative, and curled up in a corner with his head
hard against the window pane, watching the wet
fields and glistening roads as they slipped past. He
had his plans made for his conduct at Glasgow, but
Lord! how he loathed the whole business! Last
night he had had a kind of gusto in his desire to
circumvent villainy; at Dalquharter station he had
enjoyed a momentary sense of triumph; now he
felt very small, lonely and forlorn. Only one
thought far at the back of his mind cropped up now
and then to give him comfort. He was entering on
the last lap. Once get this detestable errand done
and he would be a free man, free to go back to the
kindly humdrum life from which he should never
have strayed. Never again, he vowed, never again.
Rather would he spend the rest of his days in hydro<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></SPAN></span>pathics
than come within the pale of such horrible
adventures. Romance, forsooth! This was not the
mild goddess he had sought, but an awful harpy
who battened on the souls of men.</p>
<p>He had some bad minutes as the train passed
through the suburbs, and along the grimy embankment
by which the southern lines enter the city. But
as it rumbled over the river bridge and slowed down
before the terminus, his vitality suddenly revived.
He was a business man, and there was now something
for him to do.</p>
<p>After a rapid farewell to the bagman, he found
a porter and hustled his box out of the van in the
direction of the left-luggage office. Spies, summoned
by Dobson's telegram, were, he was convinced,
watching his every movement, and he meant
to see that they missed nothing. He received his
ticket for the box, and slowly and ostentatiously
stowed it away in his pack. Swinging the said pack
on his arm he sauntered through the entrance hall
to the row of waiting taxi-cabs, and selected that
one which seemed to him to have the oldest and
most doddering driver. He deposited the pack inside
on the seat, and then stood still as if struck
with a sudden thought.</p>
<p>"I breakfasted terrible early," he told the driver.
"I think I'll have a bite to eat. Will you wait?"</p>
<p>"Ay," said the man, who was reading a grubby
sheet of newspaper. "I'll wait as long as ye like,
for it's you that pays."</p>
<p>Dickson left his pack in the cab and, oddly
enough for a careful man, he did not shut the door.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></SPAN></span>
He re-entered the station, strolled to the bookstall
and bought a <i>Glasgow Herald</i>. His steps then
tended to the refreshment room, where he ordered
a cup of coffee and two Bath buns, and seated himself
at a small table. There he was soon immersed
in the financial news, and though he sipped his coffee
he left the buns untasted. He took out a penknife
and cut various extracts from the <i>Herald</i>, bestowing
them carefully in his pocket. An observer would
have seen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market
quotations.</p>
<p>After a quarter of an hour had been spent in this
performance he happened to glance at the clock and
rose with an exclamation. He bustled out to his
taxi and found the driver still intent upon his reading.
"Here I am at last," he said cheerily, and had
a foot on the step, when he stopped suddenly with
a cry. It was a cry of alarm, but also of satisfaction.</p>
<p>"What's become of my pack? I left it on the
seat, and now it's gone! There's been a thief here."</p>
<p>The driver, roused from his lethargy, protested
in the name of his gods that no one had been near it.
"Ye took it into the station wi' ye," he urged.</p>
<p>"I did nothing of the kind. Just you wait here
till I see the inspector. A bonny watch <i>you</i> keep on
a gentleman's things."</p>
<p>But Dickson did not interview the railway authorities.
Instead he hurried to the left-luggage
office. "I deposited a small box here a short time
ago. I mind the number. Is it there still?"</p>
<p>The attendant glanced at a shelf. "A wee deal<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></SPAN></span>
box with iron bands. It was took out ten minutes
syne. A man brought the ticket and took it away
on his shoulder."</p>
<p>"Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the
blame's mine. My man mistook my orders."</p>
<p>Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver.
"I've taken it up with the station-master and he's
putting the police on. You'll likely be wanted, so
I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that
there should be so many thieves about this station.
It's not the first time I've lost things. Drive me to
West George Street and look sharp." And he
slammed the door with the violence of an angry
man.</p>
<p>But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled
to himself. "That was pretty neat. They'll take
some time to get the kist open, for I dropped the
key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael.
That gives me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of
that, they'd have found some way to grip me and
ripe me long before I got to the Bank." He shuddered
as he thought of the dangers he had escaped.
"As it is, they're off the track for half an hour at
least, while they're rummaging among Auntie
Phemie's scones." At the thought he laughed
heartily, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a
standstill by rapping on the front window, he left
it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously
he had no grudge against the driver, who to his
immense surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.</p>
<p>Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have
been seen entering the head office of the Strathclyde<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></SPAN></span>
Bank, and inquiring for the manager. There was
no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on
his native heath. The chief cashier received him
with deference, in spite of his unorthodox garb, for
he was not the least honoured of the bank's customers.
As it chanced he had been talking about
him that very morning to a gentleman from London.
"The strength of this city," he had said, tapping
his eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not lie in its
dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two
homely folk who make no parade of wealth. Men
like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all
their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half
a million." And the Londoner had cordially assented.</p>
<p>So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner
room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh,
the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.</p>
<p>"I must thank you for your generous donation,
McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and
quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. A little
country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor
little souls."</p>
<p>"Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection
of Dougal as he had last seen him. Somehow he
did not think that peace was likely to be the portion
of that devoted band. "But I've not come here to
speak about that."</p>
<p>He took off his waterproof; then his coat and
waistcoat; and showed himself a strange figure with
sundry bulges about the middle. The manager's
eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></SPAN></span>
were revealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt,
and fitting into the hollow between ribs and hip.
With some difficulty he slit the bags and extracted
three hide-bound packages.</p>
<p>"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I
hand you over these parcels, and you're to put them
in the innermost corner of your strong room. You
needn't open them. Just put them away as they are,
and write me a receipt for them. Write it now."</p>
<p>Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.</p>
<p>"What'll I call them?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Just the three leather parcels handed to you by
Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date."</p>
<p>Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name
with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his
client.</p>
<p>"Now," said Dickson, "you'll put that receipt in
the strong box where you keep my securities, and
you'll give it up to nobody but me in person, and
you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of
the receipt. D'you understand?"</p>
<p>"Perfectly. May I ask any questions?"</p>
<p>"You'd better not if you don't want to hear lees."</p>
<p>"What's in the packages?" Mr. Mackintosh
weighed them in his hand.</p>
<p>"That's asking," said Dickson. "But I'll tell ye
this much. It's jools."</p>
<p>"Your own?"</p>
<p>"No, but I'm their trustee."</p>
<p>"Valuable?"</p>
<p>"I was hearing they were worth more than a million
pounds."<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"God bless my soul," said the startled manager.
"I don't like this kind of business, McCunn."</p>
<p>"No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old
friend and a good customer. If you don't know
much about the packages you know all about me.
Now, mind, I trust you."</p>
<p>Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. "Did
you maybe steal them?"</p>
<p>Dickson grinned. "Just what I did. And that
being so, I want you to let me out by the back door."</p>
<p>When he found himself in the street he felt the
huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit
from the dentist's chair. Remembering that there
would be no midday dinner for him at home, his
first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He
had, so far as he could see, surmounted all his troubles,
his one regret being that he had lost his pack,
which contained among other things his <i>Izaak
Walton</i> and his safety razor. He bought another
razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric
tram-car <i>en route</i> for home.</p>
<p>Very contented with himself he felt as the car
swung across the Clyde bridge. He had done well—but
of that he did not want to think, for the whole
beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that
memory, to be resurrected perhaps on a later day
when the unpleasantness had been forgotten. Heritage
had his address, and knew where to come when
it was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers,
they must have ceased to suspect him, when they
discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack
and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></SPAN></span>
luxurious tea by his own fireside; and then an evening
with his books, for Heritage's nonsense had
stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into
his old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow
he would go for a jaunt somewhere—perhaps
down the Clyde, or to the South of England,
which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled
country. No more lonely inns and deserted villages
for him; henceforth he would make certain of comfort
and peace.</p>
<p>The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved
down the dreary vista of Eglinton Street, the sky
opened into fields of blue and the April sun silvered
the puddles. It was in such place and under such
weather that Dickson suffered an overwhelming
experience.</p>
<p>It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the
game of psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing
happened. I concern myself only with facts. Suddenly
the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent
from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of
himself within, a smug leaden little figure which
simpered and preened itself and was hollow as a
rotten nut. And he hated it.</p>
<p>The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had
been right. He only played with life. That imbecile
image was a mere spectator, content to applaud,
but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had
been all right as a provision merchant, but when it
fancied itself capable of higher things it had deceived
itself. Foolish little image with its brave
dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></SPAN></span>
make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward,
running away at the first threat of danger. It was
as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wand
pointing to the embarrassed phantom that was himself,
and ruthlessly exposing its frailties! And yet
the pitiless showman was himself too—himself as
he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable.</p>
<p>Dickson suffered a spasm of mortal agony. "Oh,
I'm surely not so bad as all that," he groaned. But
the hurt was not only in his pride. He saw himself
being forced to new decisions, and each alternative
was of the blackest. He fairly shivered with the
horror of it. The car slipped past a suburban station
from which passengers were emerging—comfortable
black-coated men such as he had once been.
He was bitterly angry with Providence for picking
him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk for
this sore ordeal. "Why was I tethered to sich a
conscience?" was his moan. But there was that
stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring his soul.
"You flatter yourself you have done your share,"
he was saying. "You will make pretty stories about
it to yourself, and some day you may tell your
friends, modestly disclaiming any special credit.
But you will be a liar, for you know you are afraid.
You are running away when the work is scarcely
begun, and leaving it to a few boys and a poet whom
you had the impudence the other day to despise.
I think you are worse than a coward. I think you
are a cad."</p>
<p>His fellow-passengers on the top of the car saw<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></SPAN></span>
an absorbed middle-aged gentleman who seemed to
have something the matter with his bronchial tubes.
They could not guess at the tortured soul. The decision
was coming nearer, the alternatives loomed
up dark and inevitable. On one side was submission
to ignominy, on the other a return to that place,
which he detested, and yet loathed himself for detesting.
"It seems I'm not likely to have much
peace either way," he reflected dismally.</p>
<p>How the conflict would have ended had it continued
on these lines I cannot say. The soul of Mr.
McCunn was being assailed by moral and metaphysical
adversaries with which he had not been
trained to deal. But suddenly it leapt from negatives
to positives. He saw the face of the girl in
the shuttered House, so fair and young and yet so
haggard. It seemed to be appealing to him to
rescue it from a great loneliness and fear. Yes, he
had been right, it had a strange look of his Janet—the
wide-open eyes, the solemn mouth. What
was to become of that child if he failed her in her
great need?</p>
<p>Now Dickson was a practical man and this view
of the case brought him into a world which he
understood. "It's fair ridiculous," he reflected.
"Nobody there to take a grip of things. Just a
wheen Gorbals keelies and the lad Heritage. Not
a business man among the lot."</p>
<p>The alternatives, which hove before him like two
great banks of cloud, were altering their appearance.
One was becoming faint and tenuous; the
other, solid as ever, was just a shade less black.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></SPAN></span>
He lifted his eyes and saw in the near distance the
corner of the road which led to his home. "I must
decide before I reach that corner," he told himself.</p>
<p>Then his mind became apathetic. He began to
whistle dismally through his teeth, watching the
corner as it came nearer. The car stopped with a
jerk. "I'll go back," he said aloud, clambering
down the steps. The truth was he had decided five
minutes before when he first saw Janet's face.</p>
<p>He walked briskly to his house, entirely refusing
to waste any more energy on reflection. "This is
a business proposition," he told himself, "and I'm
going to handle it as sich." Tibby was surprised
to see him and offered him tea in vain. "I'm just
back for a few minutes. Let's see the letters."</p>
<p>There was one from his wife. She proposed to
stay another week at the Neuk Hydropathic and
suggested that he might join her and bring her
home. He sat down and wrote a long affectionate
reply, declining, but expressing his delight that she
was soon returning. "That's very likely the last
time Mamma will hear from me," he reflected, but—oddly
enough—without any great fluttering of
the heart.</p>
<p>Then he proceeded to be furiously busy. He sent
out Tibby to buy another knapsack and to order
a cab and to cash a considerable cheque. In the
knapsack he packed a fresh change of clothing and
the new safety razor, but no books, for he was past
the need of them. That done, he drove to his
solicitors.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"What like a firm are Glendonan and Speirs in
Edinburgh?" he asked the senior partner.</p>
<p>"Oh, very respectable. Very respectable indeed.
Regular Edinburgh W.S. lot. Do a lot of factoring."</p>
<p>"I want you to telephone through to them and
inquire about a place in Carrick called Huntingtower,
near the village of Dalquharter. I understand
it's to let, and I'm thinking of taking a lease
of it."</p>
<p>The senior partner after some delay got through
to Edinburgh, and was presently engaged in the
feverish dialectic which the long-distance telephone
involves. "I want to speak to Mr. Glendonan himself....
Yes, yes, Mr. Caw of Paton and Linklater....
Good afternoon.... Huntingtower.
Yes, in Carrick. Not to let? But I understand
it's been in the market for some months. You say
you've an idea it has just been let. But my client is
positive that you're mistaken, unless the agreement
was made this morning.... You'll inquire? Oh,
I see. The actual factoring is done by your local
agent. Mr. James Loudon, in Auchenlochan. You
think my client had better get into touch with him
at once. Just wait a minute, please."</p>
<p>He put his hand over the receiver. "Usual Edinburgh
way of doing business," he observed caustically.
"What do you want done?"</p>
<p>"I'll run down and see this Loudon. Tell Glendonan
and Speirs to advise him to expect me, for
I'll go this very day."</p>
<p>Mr. Caw resumed his conversation. "My client<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></SPAN></span>
would like a telegram sent at once to Mr. Loudon
introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn of
Mearns Street—the great provision merchant, you
know. Oh, yes! Good for any rent. Refer if you
like to the Strathclyde Bank, but you can take my
word for it. Thank you. Then that's settled.
Good-bye."</p>
<p>Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was
a fellow-elder with him in the Guthrie Memorial
Kirk.</p>
<p>"I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges," he announced.
"I'm not caring what kind it is, so long
as it is a good one and not too big."</p>
<p>"For yourself?" the gunmaker asked. "You
must have a licence, I doubt, and there's a lot of
new regulations."</p>
<p>"I can't wait on a licence. It's for a cousin of
mine who's off to Mexico at once. You've got to
find some way of obliging an old friend, Mr.
McNair."</p>
<p>Mr. McNair scratched his head. "I don't see
how I can sell you one. But I'll tell you what I'll
do—I'll lend you one. It belongs to my nephew,
Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since
he came back from the front. He has no use for
it now that he's a placed minister."</p>
<p>So Dickson bestowed in the pockets of his waterproof
a service revolver and fifty cartridges, and
bade his cab take him to the shop in Mearns Street.
For a moment the sight of the familiar place struck
a pang to his breast, but he choked down unavailing
regrets. He ordered a great hamper of foodstuffs<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span>—the
most delicate kind of tinned goods, two perfect
hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate, cakes,
biscuits and, as a last thought, half a dozen bottles
of old liqueur brandy. It was to be carefully
packed, addressed to Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter
Station, and delivered in time for him to take down
by the 7.33 train. Then he drove to the terminus
and dined with something like a desperate peace in
his heart.</p>
<p>On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for
he wanted to be alone. As the lights began to be
lit in the wayside stations and the clear April dusk
darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yet
resigned. He opened the window and let the sharp
air of the Renfrewshire uplands fill the carriage.
It was fine weather again after the rain, and a bright
constellation—perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien—hung
in the western sky. How happy he would
have been a week ago had he been starting thus for
a country holiday! He could sniff the faint scent
of moor-burn and ploughed earth which had always
been his first reminder of spring. But he had been
pitchforked out of that old happy world and could
never enter it again. Alas! for the roadside fire,
the cosy inn, the <i>Compleat Angler</i>, the Chavender
or Chub!</p>
<p>And yet—and yet! He had done the right thing,
though the Lord alone knew how it would end.
He began to pluck courage from his very melancholy
and hope from his reflections upon the transitoriness
of life. He was austerely following Romance
as he conceived it, and if that capricious lady<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span>
had taken one dream from him she might yet
reward him with a better. Tags of poetry came
into his head which seemed to favour this philosophy—particularly
some lines of Browning on
which he used to discourse to his Kirk Literary
Society. Uncommon silly, he considered, these
homilies of his must have been, mere twitterings
of the unfledged. But now he saw more in the lines,
a deeper interpretation which he had earned the
right to make.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0q">"Oh, world, where all things change and nought abides,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, life, the long mutation—is it so?<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Is it with life as with the body's change?—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass."<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled
his memory to continue. Moralising thus, he became
drowsy, and was almost asleep when the train
drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></SPAN></span></p>
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