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

call a man of the world,” said Mr Craw. “Not the highest type of man, perhaps, but for me indispensable.”

      “I don’t think he has gone to Castle Gay,” said Jaikie. “I’m certain he is in Portaway. It is very important that he should not see you.”

      Mr Craw asked why.

      “Because the game would be up if you were recognised in Portaway, and it would be too dangerous for you to be seen speaking to one of your own secretaries. As you are just now, it wouldn’t be easy for anyone to spot you—principally because no one is expecting you, and there isn’t the right atmosphere for recognition. But if you and Allins were seen together, that might give the clue.”

      Mr Craw accepted the reasoning. “But I must have money—and clothes,” he added.

      “I’m going to send a line to Dougal as soon as we get to Portaway.”

      “And I must post the article I wrote last night.”

      “There’s something else,” said Jaikie. “You’ll have to be in Portaway for at least twenty-four hours, and your rig won’t quite do. It’s all right except the jacket, which gives you away. We must get you a ready-made jacket to match Johnston’s breeks.”

      So at a small draper’s, almost next door to the baker’s shop, a jacket of rough tweed was purchased—what is known to the trade as a “sports” line, suitable for the honest man who plays bowls or golf after his day’s work. Mr Craw was apparently stock-size for this class of jacket, for one was found which fitted him remarkably well. Also two soft collars were purchased for him. Jaikie looked with satisfaction on his handiwork. The raincoat and the hat were now battered by weather out of their former glossiness. Clad in well-worn grey trousers and a jacket of cheap tweed, Mr Craw was the image of the small tradesman on holiday. Having no reading to do, he had discarded his spectacles, and the sun and wind had given him a healthy colouring. Moreover, he had relapsed a little from his careful speech to the early idiom of Kilmaclavers. He would be a clever man, thought Jaikie, who could identify this homeliness with the awful dignity of him who had sat in Mrs Catterick’s best room.

      The town of Portaway lies on both banks of the Callowa, which there leaves its mountain vale and begins its seven miles of winding through salty pastures to the Solway. The old town is mostly on the left shore; on the right has grown up a suburb of villas and gardens, with one flaring Hydropathic, and a large new Station Hotel, which is the resort of golfers and anglers. The capital of the Canonry is half country market town, half industrial centre, for in the hills to the south-east lie the famous quarries, which employ a large and transient population. Hence the political activities of the constituency centre in the place. The countryside is Tory or Liberal; among the quarrymen is a big Socialist majority, which its mislikers call Communist. As Jaikie and Mr Craw descended the Eastgate the posters of all three candidates flaunted in shop windows and on hoardings, and a scarlet rash on a building announced the Labour committee rooms.

      In a back street stood the ancient hostelry of the Green Tree, once the fashionable county inn where in autumn the Canonry Club had its dinners, but now the resort only of farmers and the humbler bagman. Jaikie had often slept there on his tramps, and had struck up a friendship with Mrs Fairweather, its buxom proprietress. To his surprise he found that the election had not congested it, for the politicians preferred the more modern hotels across the bridge. He found rooms without trouble, in one of which was a writing-table, for the itch of composition was upon Mr Craw. They lunched satisfactorily in an empty coffee-room, and there at a corner table he proceeded to compose a letter. He wrote not to Dougal but to Alison. Dougal might be suspect, and unable to leave the Castle, while Alison was free as the winds. He asked for money and a parcel of Mr Craw’s clothing, but he asked especially for an interview at the Green Tree, fixing for it the hour of 11 a.m. the next day. There were various questions he desired to ask which could only be answered by someone familiar with the Castle ménage. It thrilled him to be writing to the girl. He began, “Dear Miss Westwater,” and then changed it to “Dear Miss Alison.” There had been something friendly and confidential about her eyes which justified the change. His handwriting was vile, and he regarded the address on the envelope with disfavour. It looked like “The Horrible Alison Westwater.” He tried to amend it, but only made it worse.

      Mr Craw proposed to remain indoors and write. This intention was so clear that Jaikie thought it unnecessary to bind him down with instructions. So, depositing the deeply offended Woolworth in his bedroom, Jaikie left the inn and posted his letter to Alison and arranged for the despatch of Mr Craw’s precious article by the afternoon train. Then he crossed the Callowa bridge to the new part of the town. He proposed to make a few private inquiries.

      He thought it unlikely that Allins would be at the Station Hotel. It was too public a place, and he might be recognised. But he had stayed there once himself, and, according to his fashion, had been on good terms with the head-porter, so, to make assurance sure, he made it his first port of call. It was as he expected. There was no Sigismund Allins in the register, and no one remotely resembling him staying in the house. The most likely place was the Hydropathic, which had famous electric baths and was visited by an odd assortment of humanity. Thither Jaikie next directed his steps.

      The entrance was imposing. He passed a garage full of cars, and the gigantic porch seemed to be crowded with guests drinking their after-luncheon coffee. He had a vision of a hall heaped with golf clubs and expensive baggage. The porter was a vast functionary in blue and gold, with a severe eye. Jaikie rather nervously entered the hall, conscious that his clothes were not in keeping with its grandeur, and asked a stately lady in the bureau if a Mr Allins was living in the house. The lady cast a casual eye at a large volume and told him “No.”

      It was the answer he expected, but he saw that further inquiries were going to be difficult. The porter was too busy and too proud—no chance of establishing confidential relations there. Jaikie emerged from the portals, and finding the Gods unfriendly, decided to appeal to Acheron. He made his way round to the back regions, which had once been stables and coach-houses, and housed now the electric plant and a repairing shop for cars. There was a kind of courtyard, with petrol pumps and water pumps, and at the corner to mark the fairway several white stones which in old days had been the seat of relaxing ostlers. On two of these sat two men, both in mechanic’s overalls, hotly disputing.

      A kind fate had led him that way, for as he sauntered past them he heard the word “Kangaroos” several times repeated. He heard the names of Morrison and Smail and Charvill—he heard his own, joined to a blasphemous epithet which seemed to be meant as commendation. He sidled towards the speakers.

      “What I say,” said one, speaking slowly and with great emphasis, “is that them that selected oor team should be drooned like kittens in a bucket. It wasna representative. I say it wasna representative. If it had been, we micht hae dung yon Kangaroos a’ to hell.”

      “Ye’re awfu’ clever, Wulkie. How wad ye hae seleckit it?”

      “I wad hae left Morrison oot, and I wad hae played”—here followed sundry names of no interest to the reader. “And I wad hae played Galt at stand-off half. It was fair manslaughter pittin’ him at wing three-quarter. He hasna the pace nor the wecht.”

      “He’s a dam fine wee felly,” said the other. “Ye ken weel he won the match.”

      “But he’d have won it better at stand-off. Yon Sneddon was nae mair use than a tattie-bogle. Ye canna pit Galt higher than I pit him, but the richt use wasna made o’ him. That’s why I wad droon the selectors.”

      “I think I would let them live a little longer,” Jaikie interposed. “After all, we won against odds. Sneddon was better than you think.”

      “Did ye see the match?” the man called Wilkie demanded fiercely.

      “Yes,” said Jaikie. “And I still feel it in my bones. You see, I was playing in it.”

      The two regarded him wildly, and then a light of recollection awoke in Wilkie’s eye. “By God, it’s Galt,” he cried. “It’s J. Galt.” He extended a dirty palm. “Pit it there. I’m prood to shake hands wi’ ye. Man, the