part in that show. I told him I wanted to see the place where the

Prince landed and where he left for France. “So far as I can make out

that won’t take me into the passport country, but I’ll have to do a bit

of footslogging. Well, I’m used to padding the hoof. I must get the

captain to put me off in Morvern, and then I can foot it round the top

of Lochiel and get back to Oban through Appin. How’s that for a holiday

trek?”

He gave the scheme his approval. “But if it was me, Mr Brand, I would

have a shot at puzzling your gallant policemen. You and I don’t take

much stock in Governments and their two-cent laws, and it would be a

good game to see just how far you could get into the forbidden land. A

man like you could put up a good bluff on those hayseeds. I don’t mind

having a bet....”

“No,” I said. “I’m out for a rest, and not for sport. If there was

anything to be gained I’d undertake to bluff my way to the Orkney

Islands. But it’s a wearing job and I’ve better things to think about.”

“So? Well, enjoy yourself your own way. I’ll be sorry when you leave

us, for I owe you something for that rough-house, and beside there’s

darned little company in the old moss-back captain.”

That evening Gresson and I swopped yarns after supper to the

accompaniment of the “Ma Goad!” and “Is’t possible?” of captain and

mate. I went to bed after a glass or two of weak grog, and made up for

the last night’s vigil by falling sound asleep. I had very little kit

with me, beyond what I stood up in and could carry in my waterproof

pockets, but on Amos’s advice I had brought my little nickel-plated

revolver. This lived by day in my hip pocket, but at night I put it

behind my pillow. But when I woke next morning to find us casting

anchor in the bay below rough low hills, which I knew to be the island

of Colonsay, I could find no trace of the revolver. I searched every

inch of the bunk and only shook out feathers from the mouldy ticking. I

remembered perfectly putting the thing behind my head before I went to

sleep, and now it had vanished utterly. Of course I could not advertise

my loss, and I didn’t greatly mind it, for this was not a job where I

could do much shooting. But it made me think a good deal about Mr

Gresson. He simply could not suspect me; if he had bagged my gun, as I

was pretty certain he had, it must be because he wanted it for himself

and not that he might disarm me. Every way I argued it I reached the

same conclusion. In Gresson’s eyes I must seem as harmless as a child.

We spent the better part of a day at Colonsay, and Gresson, so far as

his duties allowed, stuck to me like a limpet. Before I went ashore I

wrote out a telegram for Amos. I devoted a hectic hour to the

_Pilgrim’s Progress_, but I could not compose any kind of intelligible

message with reference to its text. We had all the same edition—the one

in the _Golden Treasury_ series—so I could have made up a sort of

cipher by referring to lines and pages, but that would have taken up a

dozen telegraph forms and seemed to me too elaborate for the purpose.

So I sent this message:

_Ochterlony, Post Office, Kyle,

I hope to spend part of holiday near you and to see you if boat’s

programme permits. Are any good cargoes waiting in your neighbourhood?

Reply Post Office, Oban._

It was highly important that Gresson should not see this, but it was

the deuce of a business to shake him off. I went for a walk in the

afternoon along the shore and passed the telegraph office, but the

confounded fellow was with me all the time. My only chance was just

before we sailed, when he had to go on board to check some cargo. As

the telegraph office stood full in view of the ship’s deck I did not go

near it. But in the back end of the clachan I found the schoolmaster,

and got him to promise to send the wire. I also bought off him a couple

of well-worn sevenpenny novels.

The result was that I delayed our departure for ten minutes and when I

came on board faced a wrathful Gresson. “Where the hell have you been?”

he asked. “The weather’s blowing up dirty and the old man’s mad to get

off. Didn’t you get your legs stretched enough this afternoon?”

I explained humbly that I had been to the schoolmaster to get something

to read, and produced my dingy red volumes. At that his brow cleared. I

could see that his suspicions were set at rest.

We left Colonsay about six in the evening with the sky behind us

banking for a storm, and the hills of Jura to starboard an angry

purple. Colonsay was too low an island to be any kind of breakwater

against a western gale, so the weather was bad from the start. Our

course was north by east, and when we had passed the butt-end of the

island we nosed about in the trough of big seas, shipping tons of water

and rolling like a buffalo. I know as much about boats as about

Egyptian hieroglyphics, but even my landsman’s eyes could tell that we

were in for a rough night. I was determined not to get queasy again,

but when I went below the smell of tripe and onions promised to be my

undoing; so I dined off a slab of chocolate and a cabin biscuit, put on

my waterproof, and resolved to stick it out on deck.

I took up position near the bows, where I was out of reach of the oily

steamer smells. It was as fresh as the top of a mountain, but mighty

cold and wet, for a gusty drizzle had set in, and I got the spindrift

of the big waves. There I balanced myself, as we lurched into the

twilight, hanging on with one hand to a rope which descended from the

stumpy mast. I noticed that there was only an indifferent rail between

me and the edge, but that interested me and helped to keep off

sickness. I swung to the movement of the vessel, and though I was

mortally cold it was rather pleasant than otherwise. My notion was to

get the nausea whipped out of me by the weather, and, when I was

properly tired, to go down and turn in.

I stood there till the dark had fallen. By that time I was an

automaton, the way a man gets on sentry-go, and I could have easily

hung on till morning. My thoughts ranged about the earth, beginning

with the business I had set out on, and presently—by way of

recollections of Blenkiron and Peter—reaching the German forest where,

in the Christmas of 1915, I had been nearly done in by fever and old

Stumm. I remembered the bitter cold of that wild race, and the way the

snow seemed to burn like fire when I stumbled and got my face into it.

I reflected that sea-sickness was kitten’s play to a good bout of

malaria.

The weather was growing worse, and I was getting more than spindrift

from the seas. I hooked my arm round the rope, for my fingers were

numbing. Then I fell to dreaming again, principally about Fosse Manor

and Mary Lamington. This so ravished me that I was as good as asleep. I

was trying to reconstruct the picture as I had last seen her at

Biggleswick station....

A heavy body collided with me and shook my arm from the rope. I

slithered across the yard of deck, engulfed in a whirl of water. One

foot caught a stanchion of the rail, and it gave with me, so that for

an instant I was more than half overboard. But my fingers clawed wildly

and caught in the links of what must have been the anchor chain. They

held, though a ton’s weight seemed to be tugging at my feet.... Then

the old tub rolled back, the waters slipped off, and I was sprawling on

a wet deck with no breath in me and a gallon of brine in my windpipe.

I heard a voice cry out sharply, and a hand helped me to my feet. It

was Gresson, and he seemed excited.

“God, Mr Brand, that was a close call! I was coming up to find you,

when this damned ship took to lying on her side. I guess I must have

cannoned into you, and I was calling myself bad names when I saw you

rolling into the Atlantic. If I hadn’t got a grip on the rope I would

have been down beside you. Say, you’re not hurt? I reckon you’d better

come below and get a glass of rum under your belt. You’re about as wet

as mother’s dish-clouts.”

There’s one advantage about campaigning. You take your luck when it

comes and don’t worry about what might have been. I didn’t think any

more of the business, except that it had cured me of wanting to be

sea-sick. I went down to the reeking cabin without one qualm in my

stomach, and ate a good meal of welsh-rabbit and bottled Bass, with a

tot of rum to follow up with. Then I shed my wet garments, and slept in

my bunk till we anchored off a village in Mull in a clear blue morning.

It took us four days to crawl up that coast and make Oban, for we

seemed to be a floating general store for every hamlet in those parts.

Gresson made himself very pleasant, as if he wanted to atone for nearly

doing me in. We played some poker, and I read the little books I had

got in Colonsay, and then rigged up a fishing-line, and caught saithe

and lythe and an occasional big haddock. But I found the time pass

slowly, and I was glad that about noon one day we came into a bay

blocked with islands and saw a clean little town sitting on the hills

and the smoke of a railway engine.

I went ashore and purchased a better brand of hat in a tweed store.

Then I made a bee-line for the post office, and asked for telegrams.

One was given to me, and as I opened it I saw Gresson at my elbow.

It ran thus:

_Brand, Post office, Oban. Page_ 117, _paragraph_ 3. _Ochterlony._

I passed it to Gresson with a rueful face.

“There’s a piece of foolishness,” I said. “I’ve got a cousin who’s a

Presbyterian minister up in Ross-shire, and before I knew about this

passport humbug I wrote to him and offered to pay him a visit. I told

him to wire me here if it was convenient, and the old idiot has sent me

the wrong telegram. This was likely as not meant for some other brother

parson, who’s got my message instead.”

“What’s the guy’s name?” Gresson asked curiously, peering at the

signature.

“Ochterlony. David Ochterlony. He’s a great swell at writing books, but

he’s no earthly use at handling the telegraph. However, it don’t

signify, seeing I’m not going near him.” I crumpled up the pink form

and tossed it on the floor. Gresson and I walked to the _Tobermory_

together.

That afternoon, when I got a chance, I had out my _Pilgrim’s Progress_.

Page 117, paragraph 3, read:

“_Then I saw in my dream, that a little off the road, over against the

Silver-mine, stood Demas (gentlemanlike) to call to passengers to come

and see: who said to Christian and his fellow, Ho, turn aside hither

and I will show you a thing._

At tea I led the talk to my own past life. I yarned about my

experiences as a mining engineer, and said I could never get out of the

trick of looking at country with the eye of the prospector. “For

instance,” I said, “if this had been Rhodesia, I would have said there

was a good chance of copper in these little kopjes above the town.

They’re not unlike the hills round the Messina mine.” I told the

captain that after the war I was thinking of turning my attention to

the West Highlands and looking out for minerals.

“Ye’ll make nothing of it,” said the captain. “The costs are ower big,

even if ye found the minerals, for ye’d have to import a’ your labour.

The West Hielandman is no fond o’ hard work. Ye ken the psalm o’ the

crofter?

O that the peats would cut themselves,

The fish chump on the shore,

And that I in my bed might lie

Henceforth for ever more!

“Has it ever been tried?” I asked.

“Often. There’s marble and slate quarries, and there was word o’ coal

in Benbecula. And there’s the iron mines at Ranna.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Up forenent Skye. We call in there, and generally bide a bit. There’s

a heap of cargo for Ranna, and we usually get a good load back. But as

I tell ye, there’s few Hielanders working there. Mostly Irish and lads

frae Fife and Falkirk way.”

I didn’t pursue the subject, for I had found Demas’s silver-mine. If

the _Tobermory_ lay at Ranna for a week, Gresson would have time to do

his own private business. Ranna would not be the spot, for the island

was bare to the world in the middle of a much-frequented channel. But

Skye was just across the way, and when I looked in my map at its big,

wandering peninsulas I concluded that my guess had been right, and that

Skye was the place to make for.

That night I sat on deck with Gresson, and in a wonderful starry

silence we watched the lights die out of the houses in the town, and

talked of a thousand things. I noticed—what I had had a hint of

before—that my companion was no common man. There were moments when he

forgot himself and talked like an educated gentleman: then he would

remember, and relapse into the lingo of Leadville, Colorado. In my

character of the ingenuous inquirer I set him posers about politics and

economics, the kind of thing I might have been supposed to pick up from

unintelligent browsing among little books. Generally he answered with

some slangy catchword, but occasionally he was interested beyond his

discretion, and treated me to a harangue like an equal. I discovered

another thing, that he had a craze for poetry, and a capacious memory

for it. I forgot how we drifted into the subject, but I remember he

quoted some queer haunting stuff which he said was Swinburne, and

verses by people I had heard of from Letchford at Biggleswick. Then he

saw by my silence that he had gone too far, and fell back into the

jargon of the West. He wanted to know about my plans, and we went down

into the cabin and had a look at the map. I explained my route, up

Morvern and round the head of Lochiel, and back to Oban by the east

side of Loch Linnhe.

“Got you,” he said. “You’ve a hell of a walk before you. That bug never

bit me, and I guess I’m not envying you any. And after that, Mr Brand?”

“Back to Glasgow to do some work for the cause,” I said lightly.

“Just so,” he said with a grin. “It’s a great life if you don’t

weaken.”

We steamed out of the bay next morning at dawn, and about nine o’clock

I got on shore at a little place called Lochaline. My kit was all on my

person, and my waterproof’s pockets were stuffed with chocolates and

biscuits I had bought in Oban. The captain was discouraging. “Ye’ll get

your bellyful o’ Hieland hills, Mr Brand, afore ye win round the loch

head. Ye’ll be wishin’ yerself back on the _Tobermory_.” But Gresson

speeded me joyfully on my way, and said he wished he were coming with

me. He even accompanied me the first hundred yards, and waved his hat

after me till I was round the turn of the road.

The first stage in that journey was pure delight. I was thankful to be

rid of the infernal boat, and the hot summer scents coming down the

glen were comforting after the cold, salt smell of the sea. The road

lay up the side of a small bay, at the top of which a big white house

stood among gardens. Presently I had left the coast and was in a glen

where a brown salmon-river swirled through acres of bog-myrtle. It had

its source in a loch, from which the mountain rose steeply—a place so

glassy in that August forenoon that every scar and wrinkle of the

hillside were faithfully reflected. After that I crossed a low pass to

the head of another sea-lock, and, following the map, struck over the

shoulder of a great hill and ate my luncheon far up on its side, with a

wonderful vista of wood and water below me.

All that morning I was very happy, not thinking about Gresson or Ivery,

but getting my mind clear in those wide spaces, and my lungs filled

with the brisk hill air. But I noticed one curious thing. On my last

visit to Scotland, when I covered more moorland miles a day than any

man since Claverhouse, I had been fascinated by the land, and had

pleased myself with plans for settling down in it. But now, after three

years of war and general rocketing, I felt less drawn to that kind of

landscape. I wanted something more green and peaceful and habitable,

and it was to the Cotswolds that my memory turned with longing.

I puzzled over this till I realised that in all my Cotswold pictures a

figure kept going and coming—a young girl with a cloud of gold hair and

the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung “Cherry Ripe” in a

moonlit garden. Up on that hillside I understood very clearly that I,

who had been as careless of women as any monk, had fallen wildly in

love with a child of half my age. I was loath to admit it, though for

weeks the conclusion had been forcing itself on me. Not that I didn’t

revel in my madness, but that it seemed too hopeless a business, and I

had no use for barren philandering. But, seated on a rock munching

chocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the fact and resolved to trust my

luck. After all we were comrades in a big job, and it was up to me to

be man enough to win her. The thought seemed to brace any courage that

was in me. No task seemed too hard with her approval to gain and her

companionship somewhere at the back of it. I sat for a long time in a

happy dream, remembering all the glimpses I had had of her, and humming

her song to an audience of one black-faced sheep.

On the highroad half a mile below me, I saw a figure on a bicycle

mounting the hill, and then getting off to mop its face at the summit.

I turned my Zeiss glasses on to it, and observed that it was a country

policeman. It caught sight of me, stared for a bit, tucked its machine

into the side of the road, and then very slowly began to climb the

hillside. Once it stopped, waved its hand and shouted something which I

could not hear. I sat finishing my luncheon, till the features were

revealed to me of a fat oldish man, blowing like a grampus, his cap

well on the back of a bald head, and his trousers tied about the shins

with string.

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

meal.

“Have a drink,” I said.

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

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

“You oughtn’t to,” I said. “You really oughtn’t, you know. Scorching up

hills and then doubling up a mountain are not good for your time of

life.”

He raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. “Your very good

health.” Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of water

from the spring.

“You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?” he said in his soft

sing-song, having at last found his breath.

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

them.”

“Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no

gentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come from

Achranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.”

From his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky telegraph

form. “Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my spectacles?”

It contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a

suspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and return to

Oban. The description wasn’t bad, but it lacked any one good

distinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent

pedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box, with my

brown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.

I frowned and puzzled a little. “I did see a fellow about three miles

back on the hillside. There’s a public-house just where the burn comes

in, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was your man. This

wire says ‘South African’; and now I remember the fellow had the look

of a colonial.”

The policeman sighed. “No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he will haf

a pistol and will shoot.”

“Not him,” I laughed. “He looked a mangy sort of chap, and he’ll be

scared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my advice and

get somebody with you before you tackle him. You’re always the better

of a witness.”

“That is so,” he said, brightening. “Ach, these are the bad times! in

old days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at the

flower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout. But now

it is spies, spies, and ‘Donald, get out of your bed, and go off twenty

mile to find a German.’ I wass wishing the war wass by, and the Germans

all dead.”

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

I accompanied him to the road, and saw him mount his bicycle and

zig-zag like a snipe down the hill towards Achranich. Then I set off

briskly northward. It was clear that the faster I moved the better.

As I went I paid disgusted tribute to the efficiency of the Scottish

police. I wondered how on earth they had marked me down. Perhaps it was

the Glasgow meeting, or perhaps my association with Ivery at

Biggleswick. Anyhow there was somebody somewhere mighty quick at

compiling a _dossier_. Unless I wanted to be bundled back to Oban I

must make good speed to the Arisaig coast.

Presently the road fell to a gleaming sea-loch which lay like the blue

blade of a sword among the purple of the hills. At the head there was a

tiny clachan, nestled among birches and rowans, where a tawny burn

wound to the sea. When I entered the place it was about four o’clock in

the afternoon, and peace lay on it like a garment. In the wide, sunny

street there was no sign of life, and no sound except of hens clucking

and of bees busy among the roses. There was a little grey box of a

kirk, and close to the bridge a thatched cottage which bore the sign of

a post and telegraph office.

For the past hour I had been considering that I had better prepare for

mishaps. If the police of these parts had been warned they might prove

too much for me, and Gresson would be allowed to make his journey

unmatched. The only thing to do was to send a wire to Amos and leave

the matter in his hands. Whether that was possible or not depended upon

this remote postal authority.

I entered the little shop, and passed from bright sunshine to a

twilight smelling of paraffin and black-striped peppermint balls. An

old woman with a mutch sat in an arm-chair behind the counter. She

looked up at me over her spectacles and smiled, and I took to her on

the instant. She had the kind of old wise face that God loves.

Beside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a Bible.

Open on her lap was a paper, the _United Free Church Monthly_. I

noticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on the

part to play.

“It’s a warm day, mistress,” I said, my voice falling into the broad

Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the

Highlands.

She laid aside her paper. “It is that, sir. It is grand weather for the

hairst, but here that’s no till the hinner end o’ September, and at the

best it’s a bit scart o’ aits.”

“Ay. It’s a different thing down Annandale way,” I said.

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

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

“Ye’ll no beat them,” she cried. “Not that this is no a guid place and

I’ve muckle to be thankfu’ for since John Sanderson—that was ma

man—brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas. But the

aulder I get the mair I think o’ the bit whaur I was born. It was twae

miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they tell me the place

is noo just a rickle o’ stanes.”

“I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in the

village.”

“Ye’ll hae a cup wi’ me,” she said. “It’s no often we see onybody frae

the Borders hereaways. The kettle’s just on the boil.”

She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and

treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we talked of

many things—chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.

“There’s nae lads left here,” she said. “They a’ joined the Camerons,

and the feck o’ them fell at an awfu’ place called Lowse. John and me

never had no boys, jist the one lassie that’s married on Donald Frew,

the Strontian carrier. I used to vex mysel’ about it, but now I thank

the Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow. But I wad hae liked to

have had one laddie fechtin’ for his country. I whiles wish I was a

Catholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers that are deid. It

maun be a great consolation.”

I whipped out the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ from my pocket. “That is the

grand book for a time like this.”

“Fine I ken it,” she said. “I got it for a prize in the Sabbath School

when I was a lassie.”

I turned the pages. I read out a passage or two, and then I seemed

struck with a sudden memory.

“This is a telegraph office, mistress. Could I trouble you to send a

telegram? You see I’ve a cousin that’s a minister in Ross-shire at the

Kyle, and him and me are great correspondents. He was writing about

something in the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ and I think I’ll send him a

telegram in answer.”

“A letter would be cheaper,” she said.

“Ay, but I’m on holiday and I’ve no time for writing.”

She gave me a form, and I wrote:

_Ochterlony. Post Office, Kyle.—Demas will be at his mine within the

week. Strive with him, lest I faint by the way._

“Ye’re unco lavish wi’ the words, sir,” was her only comment.

We parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried to pay

for the tea. I was bidden remember her to one David Tudhole, farmer in

Nether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.

The village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered. I took

my way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the telegram,

and I hoped I had covered my tracks. My friend the postmistress would,

if questioned, be unlikely to recognise any South African suspect in

the frank and homely traveller who had spoken with her of Annandale and

the _Pilgrim’s Progress_.

The soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to fall on

the hills. I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to the next

village on the map, where I might find quarters. But ere I had gone far

I heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car slipped past bearing

three men. The driver favoured me with a sharp glance, and clapped on

the brakes. I noted that the two men in the tonneau were carrying

sporting rifles.

“Hi, you, sir,” he cried. “Come here.” The two rifle-bearers—solemn

gillies—brought their weapons to attention.

“By God,” he said, “it’s the man. What’s your name? Keep him covered,

Angus.”

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their

wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very

stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots for

me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards’ battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his

small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes.

I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old

style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

“Middle height—strongly built—grey tweeds—brown hat—speaks with a

colonial accent—much sunburnt. What’s your name, sir?”

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the _hauteur_ of the

British officer when stopped by a French sentry. I asked him again what

the devil he had to do with my business. This made him angry and he

began to stammer.

“I’ll teach you what I have to do with it. I’m a deputy-lieutenant of

this county, and I have Admiralty instructions to watch the coast. Damn

it, sir, I’ve a wire here from the Chief Constable describing you.

You’re Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and we want to know what the

devil you’re doing here.”

As I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not have

held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. If I irritated him

he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me up for hours. So my

voice became respectful.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve not been accustomed to be pulled up

suddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is Blaikie, Captain

Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I’m home on three weeks’ leave,

to get a little peace after Hooge. We were only hauled out five days

ago.” I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock hospital at Isham would

pardon my borrowing his identity.

The man looked puzzled. “How the devil am I to be satisfied about that?

Have you any papers to prove it?”

“Why, no. I don’t carry passports about with me on a walking tour. But

you can wire to the depot, or to my London address.”

He pulled at his yellow moustache. “I’m hanged if I know what to do. I

want to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I’ll take you on

with me and put you up for the night. My boy’s at home, convalescing,

and if he says you’re _pukka_ I’ll ask your pardon and give you a

dashed good bottle of port. I’ll trust him and I warn you he’s a keen

hand.”

There was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him with an

uneasy conscience. Supposing the son knew the real Blaikie! I asked the

name of the boy’s battalion, and was told the 10th Seaforths. That

wasn’t pleasant hearing, for they had been brigaded with us on the

Somme. But Colonel Broadbury—for he told me his name—volunteered

another piece of news which set my mind at rest. The boy was not yet

twenty, and had only been out seven months. At Arras he had got a bit

of shrapnel in his thigh, which had played the deuce with the sciatic

nerve, and he was still on crutches.

We spun over ridges of moorland, always keeping northward, and brought

up at a pleasant white-washed house close to the sea. Colonel Broadbury

ushered me into a hall where a small fire of peats was burning, and on

a couch beside it lay a slim, pale-faced young man. He had dropped his

policeman’s manner, and behaved like a gentleman. “Ted,” he said, “I’ve

brought a friend home for the night. I went out to look for a suspect

and found a British officer. This is Captain Blaikie, of the Scots

Fusiliers.”

The boy looked at me pleasantly. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir.

You’ll excuse me not getting up, but I’ve got a game leg.” He was the

copy of his father in features, but dark and sallow where the other was

blond. He had just the same narrow head, and stubborn mouth, and

honest, quick-tempered eyes. It is the type that makes dashing

regimental officers, and earns V.C.s, and gets done in wholesale. I was

never that kind. I belonged to the school of the cunning cowards.

In the half-hour before dinner the last wisp of suspicion fled from my

host’s mind. For Ted Broadbury and I were immediately deep in “shop”. I

had met most of his senior officers, and I knew all about their doings

at Arras, for his brigade had been across the river on my left. We

fought the great fight over again, and yarned about technicalities and

slanged the Staff in the way young officers have, the father throwing

in questions that showed how mighty proud he was of his son. I had a

bath before dinner, and as he led me to the bathroom he apologised very

handsomely for his bad manners. “Your coming’s been a godsend for Ted.

He was moping a bit in this place. And, though I say it that shouldn’t,

he’s a dashed good boy.”

I had my promised bottle of port, and after dinner I took on the father

at billiards. Then we settled in the smoking-room, and I laid myself

out to entertain the pair. The result was that they would have me stay

a week, but I spoke of the shortness of my leave, and said I must get

on to the railway and then back to Fort William for my luggage.

So I spent that night between clean sheets, and ate a Christian

breakfast, and was given my host’s car to set me a bit on the road. I

dismissed it after half a dozen miles, and, following the map, struck

over the hills to the west. About midday I topped a ridge, and beheld

the Sound of Sleat shining beneath me. There were other things in the

landscape. In the valley on the right a long goods train was crawling

on the Mallaig railway. And across the strip of sea, like some fortress

of the old gods, rose the dark bastions and turrets of the hills of

Skye.