Dickson McCunn - Complete 'Gorbals Die-hards' Series. Buchan John

would be fruitless. “Anyhow she must come with me to the Chief Constable. Lethington’s a slow bird on the wing, and I don’t see myself convincin’ him that he must get busy unless I can produce the Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it’s Sunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till Monday mornin’.”

      “That’s just what I’m trying to get at,” said Dickson. “By all means go to the Chief Constable, and tell him it’s life or death. My lawyer in Glasgow, Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up yesterday, and you two should complete the job… But what I’m feared is that he’ll not be in time. As you say, it’s the Sabbath day, and the police are terrible slow. Now any moment that brig may be here, and the trouble will start. I’m wanting to save the Princess, but I’m wanting too to give these blagyirds the roughest handling they ever got in their lives. Therefore I say there’s no time to lose. We’re far ower few to put up a fight, and we want every man you’ve got about this place to hold the fort till the police come.”

      Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed face of Dickson with admiration. “I’m blessed if you’re not the most whole-hearted brigand I’ve ever struck.”

      “I’m not. I’m just a business man.”

      “Do you realize that you’re levying a private war and breaking every law of the land?”

      “Hoots!” said Dickson. “I don’t care a docken about the law. I’m for seeing this job through. What force can you produce?”

      “Only cripples, I’m afraid. There’s Sime, my butler. He was a Fusilier Jock and, as you saw, has lost an arm. Then McGuffog the keeper is a good man, but he’s still got a Turkish bullet in his thigh. The chauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry, and lost half a foot; and there’s myself, as lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm are no good, for one’s seventy and the other is in bed with jaundice. The Mains can produce four men, but they’re rather a job lot.”

      “They’ll do fine,” said Dickson heartily. “All sodgers, and no doubt all good shots. Have you plenty guns?”

      Sir Archie burst into uproarious laughter. “Mr. McCunn, you’re a man after my own heart. I’m under your orders. If I had a boy I’d put him into the provision trade, for it’s the place to see fightin’. Yes, we’ve no end of guns. I advise shot-guns, for they’ve more stoppin’ power in a rush than a rifle, and I take it it’s a rough-and-tumble we’re lookin’ for.”

      “Right,” said Dickson. “I saw a bicycle in the hall. I want you to lend it me, for I must be getting back. You’ll take the Princess and do the best you can with the Chief Constable.”

      “And then?”

      “Then you’ll load up your car with your folk, and come down the hill to Dalquharter. There’ll be a laddie, or maybe more than one, waiting for you on this side the village to give you instructions. Take your orders from them. If it’s a red-haired ruffian called Dougal you’ll be wise to heed what he says, for he has a grand head for battles.”

      Five minutes later Dickson was pursuing a quavering course like a snipe down the avenue. He was a miserable performer on a bicycle. Not for twenty years had he bestridden one, and he did not understand such new devices as free-wheels and change of gears. The mounting had been the worst part, and it had only been achieved by the help of a rockery. He had begun by cutting into two flower-beds, and missing a birch tree by inches. But he clung on desperately, well knowing that if he fell off it would be hard to remount, and at length he gained the avenue. When he passed the lodge gates he was riding fairly straight, and when he turned off the Ayr highway to the side road that led to Dalquharter he was more or less master of his machine.

      He crossed the Garple by an ancient hunch-backed bridge, observing even in his absorption with the handle-bars that the stream was in roaring spate. He wrestled up the further hill with aching calf-muscles, and got to the top just before his strength gave out. Then as the road turned seaward he had the slope with him, and enjoyed some respite. It was no case for putting up his feet, for the gale was blowing hard on his right cheek, but the downward grade enabled him to keep his course with little exertion. His anxiety to get back to the scene of action was for the moment appeased, since he knew he was making as good speed as the weather allowed, so he had leisure for thought.

      But the mind of this preposterous being was not on the business before him. He dallied with irrelevant things—with the problems of youth and love. He was beginning to be very nervous about Heritage, not as the solitary garrison of the old Tower, but as the lover of Saskia. That everybody should be in love with her appeared to him only proper, for he had never met her like, and assumed that it did not exist. The desire of the moth for the star seemed to him a reasonable thing, since hopeless loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were twenty-five himself to have the chance of indulging in such sentimentality for such a lady. But Heritage was not like him and would never be content with a romantic folly… He had been in love with her for two years— a long time. He spoke about wanting to die for her, which was a flight beyond Dickson himself. “I doubt it will be what they call a ‘grand passion,’” he reflected with reverence. But it was hopeless; he saw quite clearly that it was hopeless.

      Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson’s instincts were subtler than his intelligence. He recognized that the two belonged to different circles of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious lady, whose eyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate for the Poet. His faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break his heart, poor man. There was he holding the fort alone and cheering himself with delightful fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson wanted happy endings, and here there was no hope of such. He hated to admit that life could be crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly dashed.

      Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of course he would soon be in love with her, if he were not so already. Dickson like all his class had a profound regard for the country gentry. The business Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire rank in the common sense. But for ancient race he has respect in his bones, though it may happen that in public he denies it, and the laird has for him a secular association with good family… Sir Archie might do. He was young, good-looking, obviously gallant… But no! He was not quite right either. Just a trifle too light in weight, too boyish and callow. The Princess must have youth, but it should be mighty youth, the youth of a Napoleon or a Caesar. He reflected that the Great Montrose, for whom he had a special veneration, might have filled the bill. Or young Harry with his beaver up? Or Claverhouse in the picture with the flush of temper on his cheek?

      The meditations of the match-making Dickson came to an abrupt end. He had been riding negligently, his head bent against the wind, and his eyes vaguely fixed on the wet hill-gravel of the road. Of his immediate environs he was pretty well unconscious. Suddenly he was aware of figures on each side of him who advanced menacingly. Stung to activity he attempted to increase his pace, which was already good, for the road at this point descended steeply. Then, before he could prevent it, a stick was thrust into his front wheel, and the next second he was describing a curve through the air. His head took the ground, he felt a spasm of blinding pain, and then a sense of horrible suffocation before his wits left him.

      “Are ye sure it’s the richt man, Ecky?” said a voice which he did not hear.

      “Sure. It’s the Glesca body Dobson telled us to look for yesterday. It’s a pund note atween us for this job. We’ll tie him up in the wud till we’ve time to attend to him.”

      “Is he bad?”

      “It doesna maitter,” said the one called Ecky. “He’ll be deid onyway long afore the morn.”

      Mrs. Morran all forenoon was in a state of un-Sabbatical disquiet. After she had seen Saskia and Dickson start she finished her housewifely duties, took Cousin Eugenie her breakfast, and made preparation for the midday dinner. The invalid in the bed in the parlour was not a repaying subject. Cousin Eugenie belonged to that type of elderly women who, having been spoiled in youth, find the rest of life fall far short