CHAPTER VII

Late that evening they reached a city which the home-coming chieftain in

an outburst of Celtic fervor dubbed “mine own bonny Edinburg!” and there

they repaired for the night to a hotel. Once more the Baron (we may

still style him so since the peerage of Tulliwuddle was of that standing

also) showed a certain diffidence when it came to answering to his new

title in public; but in the seclusion of their private sitting-room he

was careful to assure his friend that this did not arise from any lack

of nerve or qualms zof conscience, but merely through a species of

headache--the result of railway travelling.

“Do not fear for me,” he declared as he stirred the sugar in his glass,

“I have ze heart of a lion.”

The liquid he was sipping being nothing less potent than a brew of

whisky punch, which he had ordered (or rather requested Bunker to order)

as the most romantically national compound he could think of, produced,

indeed, a fervor of foolhardiness. He insisted upon opening the door

wide, and getting Bunker to address him as “Tollyvoddle,” in a strident

voice, “so zat zey all may hear,” and then answering in a firm “Yes,

Count Bonker, vat vould you say to me?”

It is true that he instantly closed the door again, and even bolted it,

but his display seemed to make a vast impression upon himself.

“Many men vould not dare so to go mit anozzer name,” he announced; “bot

I have my nerves onder a good gontrol.”

“You astonish me,” said the Count.

“I do even surprise myself,” admitted the Baron.

In truth the ordeal of carelessly carrying off an alias is said by those

who have undergone it (and the report is confirmed by an experienced

class of public officials) to require a species of hardihood which,

fortunately for society, is somewhat rare. The most daring Smith will

sometimes stammer when it comes to merely answering “Yes” to a cry of

“Brown!” and Count Bunker, whose knowledge of human nature was profound

and remarkably accurate, was careful to fortify his friend by example

and praise, till by the time they went to bed the Baron could scarcely

be withheld from seeking out the manager and airing his assurance upon

him. Or, at least, he declared he would have done this had he been sure

that the manager was not already in bed himself.

Unfortunately at this juncture the Count committed one of those

indiscretions to which a gay spirit is always prone, but which, to do

him justice, seldom sullied his own record as a successful adventurer.

At an hour considerably past midnight, hearing an excited summons from

the Baron's bedroom, he laid down his toothbrush and hastened across the

passage, to find the new peer in a crimson dressing-gown of quilted silk

gazing enthusiastically at a lithograph that hung upon the wall.

“See!” he cried gleefully, “here is my own ancestor. Bonker, I feel I am

Tollyvoddle indeed.”

The print which had inspired this enthusiasm depicted a historical but

treasonable Lord Tulliwuddle preparing to have his head removed.

Giving it a droll look, the Count observed--

“Well, if it inspires you, my dear Baron, that's all right. The omen

would have struck me differently.”

“Ze omen!” murmured the Baron with a start.

It required all Bunker's tact to revive his ally's damped enthusiasm,

and even at breakfast next morning he referred in a gloomy voice to

various premonitions recorded in the history of his family, and the

horrible consequences of disregarding them.

But by the time they had started upon their journey north, his spirits

rose a trifle; and when at length all lowland landscapes were left

far behind them, and they had come into a province of peat streams and

granite pinnacles, with the gloom of pines and the freshness of the

birch blended like a May and December marriage, all appearance, at

least, of disquietude had passed away.

Yet the Count kept an anxious eye upon him. He was becoming decidedly

restless. At one moment he would rave about the glorious scenery; the

next, plunge into a brown study of the Tulliwuddle rent-roll; and then

in an instant start humming an air and smoking so fast that both their

cases were empty while they were yet half an hour from Torrydhulish

Station. Now the Baron took to biting his nails, looking at his watch,

and answering questions at random--a very different spectacle from the

enthusiastic traveller of yesterday.

“Only ten minutes more,” observed Bunker in his most cheering manner.

The Baron made no reply.

They were now running along the brink of a glimmering loch, the piled

mountains on the farther shore perfectly mirrored; a tern or two lazily

fishing; a delicate summer sky smiling above. All at once Count Bunker

started--

“That must be Hechnahoul!” said he.

The Baron looked and beheld, upon an eminence across the loch, the

towers and turrets of an imposing mansion overtopping a green grove.

“And here is the station,” added the Count.

The Baron's face assumed a piteous expression.

“Bonker,” he stammered, “I--I am afraid! You be ze Tollyvoddle--I cannot

do him!”

“My dear Baron!”

“Oh, I cannot!”

“Be brave--for the honor of the fatherland. Play the bold Blitzenberg!”

“Ach, ja; but not bold Tollyvoddle. Zat picture--you vere right--it vas

omen!”

Never did the genius of Bunker rise more audaciously to an occasion.

“My dear Baron,” said he, assuming on the instant a confidence-inspiring

smile, “that print was a hoax; it wasn't old Tulliwuddle at all. I faked

it myself.”

“So?” gasped the Baron. “You assure me truly?”

Muttering (the historian sincerely hopes) a petition for forgiveness,

Bunker firmly answered--

“I do assure you!”

The train had stopped, and as they were the only first-class passengers

on board, a peculiarly magnificent footman already had his hand upon the

door. Before turning the handle, he touched his hat.

“Lord Tulliwuddle?” he respectfully inquired.

“Ja--zat is, yes, I am,” replied the Baron.