Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan John

nodded. “So I was thinkin’. The lassie wasn’t muckle the easier for gettin’ rid o’ them. I didn’t just quite understand what she said to Mr. Heritage, for they were aye wanderin’ into foreign langwidges, but it seems she’s terrible feared o’ somebody that may turn up any moment. What’s the reason I can’t say. She’s maybe got a secret, or maybe it’s just that she’s ower bonny.”

      “That’s the trouble,” said Dickson, and proceeded to recount his interview with the factor, to which Dougal gave close attention. “Now the way I read the thing is this. There’s a plot to kidnap that lady for some infernal purpose, and it depends on the arrival of some person or persons, and it’s due to happen in the next day or two. If we try to work it through the police alone, they’ll beat us, for Loudon will manage to hang the business up until it’s too late. So we must take on the job ourselves. We must stand a siege, Mr. Heritage and me and you laddies, and for that purpose we’d better all keep together. It won’t be extra easy to carry her off from all of us, and if they do manage it we’ll stick to their heels… Man, Dougal, isn’t it a queer thing that whiles law-abiding folk have to make their own laws?… So my plan is that the lot of us get into the House and form a garrison. If you don’t, the tinklers will come back and you’ll no’ beat them in the daylight.”

      “I doubt no’,” said Dougal. “But what about our meat?”

      “We must lay in provisions. We’ll get what we can from Mrs. Morran, and I’ve left a big box of fancy things at Dalquharter station. Can you laddies manage to get it down here?”

      Dougal reflected. “Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sempill’s powny, the same that fetched our kit.”

      “Well, that’s your job to-morrow. See, I’ll write you a line to the station-master. And will you undertake to get it some way into the House?”

      “There’s just the one road open—by the rocks. It’ll have to be done. It CAN be done.”

      “And I’ve another job. I’m writing this telegram to a friend in Glasgow who will put a spoke in Mr. Loudon’s wheel. I want one of you to go to Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office there.”

      Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom. “What about yourself? We want somebody outside to keep his eyes open. It’s bad strawtegy to cut off your communications.”

      Dickson thought for a moment. “I believe you’re right. I believe the best plan for me is to go back to Mrs. Morran’s as soon as the old body’s like to be awake. You can always get at me there, for it’s easy to slip into her back kitchen without anybody in the village seeing you… Yes, I’ll do that, and you’ll come and report developments to me. And now I’m for a bite and a pipe. It’s hungry work travelling the country in the small hours.”

      “I’m going to introjuice ye to the rest o’ us,” said Dougal. “Here, men!” he called, and four figures rose from the side of the fire. As Dickson munched a sandwich he passed in review the whole company of the Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also brought in, two others taking their places. There was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with a wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had borrowed from his neck. There was a burly lad who wore trousers much too large for him, and who was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction presumably for Peter Paterson. After him came a lean tall boy who answered to the name of Napoleon. There was a midget of a child, desperately sooty in the face either from battle or from fire-tending, who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last came the picket who had held his pole at Dickson’s chest, a sandy-haired warrior with a snub nose and the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old Bill, or, in Dougal’s parlance, “Auld Bull.”

      The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with a grim content. “That’s a tough lot for ye, Mr. McCunn. Used a’ their days wi’ sleepin’ in coal-rees and dunnies and dodgin’ the polis. Ye’ll no beat the Gorbals Die-Hards.”

      “You’re right, Dougal,” said Dickson. “There’s just the six of you. If there were a dozen, I think this country would be needing some new kind of a government.”

      CHAPTER 8

       HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A CHALLENGE

       Table of Contents

      The first cocks had just begun to crow and clocks had not yet struck five when Dickson presented himself at Mrs. Morran’s back door. That active woman had already been half an hour out of bed, and was drinking her morning cup of tea in the kitchen. She received him with cordiality, nay, with relief.

      “Eh, sir, but I’m glad to see ye back. Guid kens what’s gaun on at the Hoose thae days. Mr. Heritage left here yestreen, creepin’ round by dyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It’s a mercy to get a responsible man in the place. I aye had a notion ye wad come back, for, thinks I, nevoy Dickson is no the yin to desert folk in trouble… Whaur’s my wee kist?… Lost, ye say. That’s a peety, for it’s been my cheesebox thae thirty year.”

      Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced his need of at least three hours’ sleep. As he rolled into bed his mind was curiously at ease. He felt equipped for any call that might be made on him. That Mrs. Morran should welcome him back as a resource in need gave him a new assurance of manhood.

      He woke between nine and ten to the sound of rain lashing against the garret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of sleep and recovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his disgust that he had lost his composure. All the flock of fears, that had left him when on the top of the Glasgow tram-car he had made the great decision, had flown back again and settled like black crows on his spirit. He was running a horrible risk and all for a whim. What business had he to be mixing himself up in things he did not understand? It might be a huge mistake, and then he would be a laughing stock; for a moment he repented his telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion; there could be no mistake, except the fatal one that he had taken on a job too big for him. He sat on the edge of the bed and shivered with his eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt more stout-hearted had the sun been shining.

      He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the village street was Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason told him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter hid as long as possible. There was a knock at the cottage door, and presently Mrs. Morran appeared.

      “It’s the man frae the inn,” she announced. “He’s wantin’ a word wi’ ye. Speakin’ verra ceevil, too.”

      “Tell him to come up,” said Dickson. He might as well get the interview over. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know of their conversation. The sight of himself back again when he had pretended to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered just what line Dobson would take.

      The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low door. His face was wrinkled into a smile, which nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial. His voice had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody whom he had recently seen. It was Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad copy of the factor. They must be near kin, perhaps brothers.

      “Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it’s pitifu’ weather, and just when the farmers are wanting a dry seed-bed. What brings ye back here? Ye travel the country like a drover.”

      “Oh, I’m a free man now and I took a fancy to this place. An idle body has nothing to do but please himself.”

      “I hear ye’re taking a lease of Huntingtower?”

      “Now who told you that?”

      “Just the clash of the place. Is it true?”

      Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.

      “I