The Greatest Adventure Books - Robert Louis Stevenson Edition (Illustrated). Robert Louis Stevenson

body to speak with. Only let me remind you, it’s quite needless he should hear more of your adventures or those of — ahem — Mr. Thomson.”

      Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and I brought up the rear.

      Night was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten had been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling wind in the southwest that covered the sound of our approach; and as we drew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It seemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for our arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty yards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and crouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were in our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to knock.

      Chapter XXIX

       I Come into My Kingdom

       Table of Contents

      For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused the echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could hear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle had come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alan standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an honest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile in silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.

“What’s this?” says he. “This is nae kind of time of night for decent folk; and I hae nae trokings* wi’ night-hawks. What brings ye here? I have a blunderbush.”

* Dealings.

      “Is that yoursel’, Mr. Balfour?” returned Alan, stepping back and looking up into the darkness. “Have a care of that blunderbuss; they’re nasty things to burst.”

      “What brings ye here? and whae are ye?” says my uncle, angrily.

      “I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the countryside,” said Alan; “but what brings me here is another story, being more of your affair than mine; and if ye’re sure it’s what ye would like, I’ll set it to a tune and sing it to you.”

      “And what is’t?” asked my uncle.

      “David,” says Alan.

      “What was that?” cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.

      “Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?” said Alan.

      There was a pause; and then, “I’m thinking I’ll better let ye in,” says my uncle, doubtfully.

      “I dare say that,” said Alan; “but the point is, Would I go? Now I will tell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this doorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as stiffnecked as yoursel’, and a gentleman of better family.”

      This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while digesting it, and then says he, “Weel, weel, what must be must,” and shut the window. But it took him a long time to get downstairs, and a still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At last, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle slipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or two) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his hands.

      “And, now” says he, “mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step nearer ye’re as good as deid.”

      “And a very civil speech,” says Alan, “to be sure.”

      “Na,” says my uncle, “but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding, and I’m bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other, ye’ll can name your business.”

      “Why,” says Alan, “you that are a man of so much understanding, will doubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae business in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from the Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a ship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was seeking wreckwood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad that was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other gentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from that day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that I could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was your born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my friends,” added Alan, simply, “are no very well off.”

      My uncle cleared his throat. “I’m no very caring,” says he. “He wasnae a good lad at the best of it, and I’ve nae call to interfere.”

      “Ay, ay,” said Alan, “I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don’t care, to make the ransom smaller.”

      “Na,” said my uncle, “it’s the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest in the lad, and I’ll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill of him for what I care.”

      “Hoot, sir,” says Alan. “Blood’s thicker than water, in the deil’s name! Ye cannae desert your brother’s son for the fair shame of it; and if ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your countryside, or I’m the more deceived.”

      “I’m no just very popular the way it is,” returned Ebenezer; “and I dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by you or your friends. So that’s idle talk, my buckie,” says he.

      “Then it’ll have to be David that tells it,” said Alan.

      “How that?” says my uncle, sharply.

      “Ou, just this, way” says Alan. “My friends would doubtless keep your nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it, but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang where he pleased, and be damned to him!”

      “Ay, but I’m no very caring about that either,” said my uncle. “I wouldnae be muckle made up with that.”

      “I was thinking that,” said Alan.

      “And what for why?” asked Ebenezer.

      “Why, Mr. Balfour,” replied Alan, “by all that I could hear, there were two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us to keep him. It seems it’s not the first; well then, it’s the second; and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket and the pockets of my friends.”

      “I dinnae follow ye there,” said my uncle.

      “No?” said Alan. “Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well, what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?”

      My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.

      “Come, sir,” cried Alan. “I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman; I bear a king’s name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall door. Either give me an answer in civility,