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

finish the course, however painful it might be. The sight of the laden Jaikie woke a momentary compunction, but he dared not cumber himself with the second pack. After all he was an elderly man and must husband his strength. He would find some way of making it up to Jaikie.

      The road, after leaving the Back House of the Garroch, crossed a low pass between the Caldron and a spur of the great Muneraw, and then, after threading a patch of bog, began to descend the upper glen of a burn which joined a tributary of the distant Gled. Mr Craw’s modish boots had been tolerable on the fine sand and gravel of the first mile. They had become very wet in the tract of bog, where the heather grew thick in the middle of the road, and long pools of inky water filled the ruts. But as the path began its descent they became an abomination. The surface was cut by frequent rivulets which had brought down in spate large shoals of gravel. Sometimes it was deep, fine scree, sometimes a rockery of sharp-pointed stones. The soles of his boots, thin at the best, and now as sodden as a sponge, were no protection against the unyielding granite. His feet were as painful as if he was going barefoot, and his ankles ached with constant slips and twists.

      He was getting warm, too. The morning chill had gone out of the air, and, though the sky was still cloudy, there was a faint glow from the hidden sun. Mr Craw began by taking off his gloves. Then he removed his raincoat, and carried it on his arm. It kept slipping and he trod on its tail, the while he minced delicately to avoid the sharper stones.

      The glen opened and revealed a wide shallow valley down which flowed one of the main affluents of the Gled. The distances were hazy, but there was a glimpse of stubble fields and fir plantations, proof that they were within view of the edge of the moorlands. Mr Craw, who for some time had been walking slowly and in evident pain, sat down on the parapet of a little bridge and lifted his feet from the tormenting ground.

      “How many miles more?” he asked, and when told “Seven,” he groaned.

      Jaikie unbuckled his packs.

      “It’s nonsense your wearing these idiotic things,” he said firmly. “In another hour you’ll have lamed yourself for a week.” From Dougal’s pack he extracted a pair of stout country boots and from his own a pair of woollen socks. “If you don’t put these on, I’ll have to carry you to Glendonan.”

      Mr Craw accepted the articles with relief. He bathed his inflamed and aching feet in the burn, and encased them in Jaikie’s homespun. When he stood up he regarded his new accoutrements with disfavour. Shooting boots did not harmonise with his neat blue trousers, and he had a pride in a natty appearance. “I can change back at the station,” he observed, and for the first time that day he stepped out with a certain freedom.

      His increased comfort made him magnanimous.

      “You had better give me the second pack,” he volunteered.

      “I can manage all right,” was Jaikie’s answer. “It’s still a long road to Glendonan.”

      Presently, as the track dipped to the levels by the stream side, the surface improved, and Mr Craw, relieved of his painful bodily preoccupation, and no longer compelled to hop from stone to stone, returned to forecasting the future. Tomorrow morning he would be in London. He would go straight to the office, and, the day being Sunday, would have a little time to think things out. Bamff, his manager, was in America. He could not summon Barbon, who had his hands full at Castle Gay. Allins—Allins was on holiday—believed to be in Spain—he might conceivably get hold of Allins. There were others, too, who could assist him—his solicitor, Mr Merkins, of Merkins, Thrawn & Merkins—he had no secrets from him. And Lord Wassell, whom he had recently brought on to the board of the View—Wassell was a resourceful fellow, and deeply in his debt.

      He was slipping into a better humour. It had been a preposterous adventure—something to laugh over in the future—meminisse juvabit—how did the tag go?—he had used it only the other day in one of his articles… He felt rather hungry—no doubt the moorland air. He ought to be able to get a decent dinner in Gledmouth. What about his berth in the sleeping-car? It was the time of year when a good many people were returning from Scotland. Perhaps he had better wire about it from Glendonan… And then a thought struck him, which brought him to a halt and set him feeling for his pocket-book.

      It was Mr Craw’s provident habit always to carry in his pocket-book a sum of one hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes as an insurance against accidents. He opened the pocket-book with anxiety, and the notes were not there.

      He remembered only too well what had happened. The morning he had gone to Glasgow he had emptied the contents of his pocket-book on his dressing-table in order to find the card with his architect’s address. He had not restored the notes, because they made the book too bulky, and he had proposed to get instead two fifty-pound notes from Barbon, who kept the household’s petty cash. He had forgotten to do this, and now he had nothing on his person but the loose change left from his Glasgow journey. It lay in his hand, and amounted to twelve shillings, a sixpence, two threepenny bits, and four pennies.

      To a man who for the better part of a lifetime has taken money for granted and has never had to give a thought to its importance in the conduct of life, a sudden shortage comes as a horrid surprise. He finds it an outrage alike against decency and dignity. He is flung neck and crop into a world which he does not comprehend, and his dismay is hysterical.

      “I have no money,” he stammered, ignoring the petty coins in his palm.

      Jaikie slid the packs to the ground.

      “But you offered Dougal and me twenty pounds to go to Castle Gay,” he protested.

      Mr Craw explained his misadventure. Jaikie extracted from an inner pocket a skimpy leather purse, while the other watched his movements with the eyes of a hungry dog who believes that there is provender going. He assessed its contents.

      “I have two pounds, thirteen and ninepence,” he announced. “I didn’t bring much, for you don’t spend money in the hills, and I knew that Dougal had plenty.”

      “That’s no earthly use to me,” Mr Craw wailed.

      “I don’t know. It will buy you a third-class ticket to London and leave something for our meals to-day. You’re welcome to it.”

      “But what will you do?”

      “I’ll go back to Mrs Catterick, and then I’ll find Dougal. I can wire for some more. I’m pretty hard up just now, but there’s a few pounds left in my allowance. You see, YOU can’t get any more till you get to London.”

      Mr Craw’s breast was a maelstrom of confused emotions. He was not without the quality which in Scotland is called “mense,” and he was reluctant to take advantage of Jaikie’s offer and leave that unfortunate penniless. Moreover, the thought of travelling third-class by night roused his liveliest disgust. Fear, too—for he would be mixed up in the crowd, without protection against the enemies who now beset his path. He shrank like a timid spinster from rough contacts. Almost to be preferred was this howling wilderness to the chances of such sordid travel.

      “There’s another way,” said the helpful Jaikie. He wanted to get rid of his companion, but he was aware that it was his duty, if possible, to detain that companion at his side, and to detain him in the Canonry. The conclave at the Mains had instructed him to keep Mr Craw hidden, and he had no belief in London as a place of concealment. So, “against interest,” as the lawyers say, he propounded an alternative.

      “We could stay hereabouts for a couple of days, and I could borrow a bicycle and slip over to Castle Gay and get some money.”

      Mr Craw’s face cleared a little. He was certain now that the moors of the Canonry were better than a third-class in the London train. He brooded a little and then announced that he favoured the plan.

      “Good,” said Jaikie. “Well, we needn’t go near Glendonan. We’d better strike south and sleep the night at Watermeeting. It’s a lonely place, but there’s quite a decent little inn, and it’s on the road to Gledmouth. To-morrow I’ll try to raise a bicycle and get over to Castle Gay, and with luck you may be in London on Monday morning. We