John Buchan - The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you for thinking so much about my comfort,” he said in a voice into which he hoped he had insinuated a sneer. “But I’m bound to say you’re awful suspicious folk about here. You needn’t be feared for your old policies. There’s plenty of nice walks about the roads, and I want to explore the sea-coast.”

The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. “That’s no’ allowed either,” he said. “The shore’s as private as the policies… Well, I wish ye joy tramping the roads in the glaur.”

“It’s a queer thing,” said Dickson meditatively, “that you should keep a hotel and yet be set on discouraging people from visiting this neighbourhood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel of yours is all sham. You’ve some other business, you and these lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it’s not a very creditable one.”

“What d’ye mean?” asked Dobson sharply.

“Just what I say. You must expect a body to be suspicious, if you treat him as you’re treating me.” Loudon must have told this man the story with which he had been fobbed off about the half-witted Kennedy relative. Would Dobson refer to that?

The innkeeper had an ugly look on his face, but he controlled his temper with an effort.

“There’s no cause for suspicion,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned it’s all honest and above-board.”

“It doesn’t look like it. It looks as if you were hiding something up in the House which you don’t want me to see.”

Dobson jumped from his chair. his face pale with anger. A man in pyjamas on a raw morning does not feel at this bravest, and Dickson quailed under the expectation of assault. But even in his fright he realized that Loudon could not have told Dobson the tale of the half-witted lady. The last remark had cut clean through all camouflage and reached the quick.

“What the hell d’ye mean?” he cried. “Ye’re a spy, are ye? Ye fat little fool, for two cents I’d wring your neck.”

Now it is an odd trait of certain mild people that a suspicion of threat, a hint of bullying, will rouse some unsuspected obstinacy deep down in their souls. The insolence of the man’s speech woke a quiet but efficient little devil in Dickson.

“That’s a bonny tone to adopt in addressing a gentleman. If you’ve nothing to hide what way are you so touchy? I can’t be a spy unless there’s something to spy on.”

The innkeeper pulled himself together. He was apparently acting on instructions, and had not yet come to the end of them. He made an attempt at a smile.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon if I spoke too hot. But it nettled me to hear ye say that… I’ll be quite frank with ye, Mr. McCunn, and, believe me, I’m speaking in your best interests. I give ye my word there’s nothing wrong up at the House. I’m on the side of the law, and when I tell ye the whole story ye’ll admit it. But I can’t tell it ye yet… This is a wild, lonely bit, and very few folk bide in it. And these are wild times, when a lot of queer things happen that never get into the papers. I tell ye it’s for your own good to leave Dalquharter for the present. More I can’t say, but I ask ye to look at it as a sensible man. Ye’re one that’s accustomed to a quiet life and no’ meant for rough work. Ye’ll do no good if you stay, and, maybe, ye’ll land yourself in bad trouble.”

“Mercy on us!” Dickson exclaimed. “What is it you’re expecting? Sinn Fein?”

The innkeeper nodded. “Something like that.”

“Did you ever hear the like? I never did think much of the Irish.”

“Then ye’ll take my advice and go home? Tell ye what, I’ll drive ye to the station.”

Dickson got up from the bed, found his new safety-razor and began to strop it. “No, I think I’ll bide. If you’re right there’ll be more to see than glaury roads.”

“I’m warning ye, fair and honest. Ye… can’t… be… allowed… to … stay… here!”

“Well I never!” said Dickson. “Is there any law in Scotland, think you, that forbids a man to stop a day or two with his auntie?”

“Ye’ll stay?”

“Ay, I’ll stay.”

“By God, we’ll see about that.”

For a moment Dickson thought that he would be attacked, and he measured the distance that separated him from the peg whence hung his waterproof with the pistol in its pocket. But the man restrained himself and moved to the door. There he stood and cursed him with a violence and a venom which Dickson had not believed possible. The full hand was on the table now.

“Ye wee pot-bellied, pig-heided Glasgow grocer” (I paraphrase), “would you set up to defy me? I tell ye, I’ll make ye rue the day ye were born.” His parting words were a brilliant sketch of the maltreatment in store for the body of the defiant one.

“Impident dog,” said Dickson without heat. He noted with pleasure that the innkeeper hit his head violently against the low lintel, and, missing a step, fell down the loft stairs into the kitchen, where Mrs. Morran’s tongue could be heard speeding him trenchantly from the premises.

Left to himself, Dickson dressed leisurely, and by and by went down to the kitchen and watched his hostess making broth. The fracas with Dobson had done him all the good in the world, for it had cleared the problem of dubieties and had put an edge on his temper. But he realized that it made his continued stay in the cottage undesirable. He was now the focus of all suspicion, and the innkeeper would be as good as his word and try to drive him out of the place by force. Kidnapping, most likely, and that would be highly unpleasant, besides putting an end to his usefulness. Clearly he must join the others. The soul of Dickson hungered at the moment for human companionship. He felt that his courage would be sufficient for any team-work, but might waver again if he were left to play a lone hand.

He lunched nobly off three plates of Mrs. Morran’s kail—an early lunch, for that lady, having breakfasted at five, partook of the midday meal about eleven. Then he explored her library, and settled himself by the fire with a volume of Covenanting tales, entitled Gleanings Among the Mountains . It was a most practical work for one in his position, for it told how various eminent saints of that era escaped the attention of Claverhouse’s dragoons. Dickson stored up in his memory several of the incidents in case they should come in handy. He wondered if any of his forbears had been Covenanters; it comforted him to think that some old progenitor might have hunkered behind turf walls and been chased for his life in the heather. “Just like me,” he reflected. “But the dragoons weren’t foreigners, and there was a kind of decency about Claverhouse too.”

About four o’clock Dougal presented himself in the back kitchen. He was an even wilder figure than usual, for his bare legs were mud to the knees, his kilt and shirt clung sopping to his body, and, having lost his hat, his wet hair was plastered over his eyes. Mrs. Morran said, not unkindly, that he looked “like a wull-cat glowerin’ through a whin buss.”

“How are you, Dougal?” Dickson asked genially. “Is the peace of nature smoothing out the creases in your poor little soul?”

“What’s that ye say?”

“Oh, just what I heard a man say in Glasgow. How have you got on?”

“No’ so bad. Your telegram was sent this mornin’. Auld Bill took it in to Kirkmichael. That’s the first thing. Second, Thomas Yownie has took a party to get down the box from the station. He got Mrs. Sempills’ powny, and he took the box ayont the Laver by the ford at the herd’s hoose and got it on to the shore maybe a mile ayont Laverfoot. He managed to get the machine up as far as the water, but he could get no farther, for ye’ll no’ get a machine over the wee waterfa’ just before the Laver ends in the sea. So he sent one o’ the men back with it to Mrs. Sempill, and, since the box was ower heavy to carry, he opened it and took the stuff across in bits. It’s a’ safe in the hole at the foot o’ the Huntingtower rocks, and he reports that the rain has done it no harm. Thomas has made a good job of it. Ye’ll no’ fickle Thomas Yownie.”