Read Online The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Buchan
Ads: Link
chin, and a pair of big horn spectacles.
‘I canna dae’t,’ he cried again. ‘The Surveyor maun just report me. I’m for my bed.’
I asked him what was the trouble, though indeed that was clear enough.
‘The trouble is that I’m no sober. Last nicht my dochter Merran was waddit, and they
danced till fower in the byre. Me and some ither chiels sat down to the drinkin’,
and here I am. Peety that I ever lookit on the wine when it was red!’
I agreed with him about bed. ‘It’s easy speakin’,’ he moaned. ‘But I got a postcard
yestreen sayin’ that the new Road Surveyor would be round the day. He’ll come and
he’ll no find me, or else he’ll find me fou, and either way I’m a done man. I’ll awa’
back to my bed and say I’m no weel, but I doot that’ll no help me, for they ken my
kind o’ no-weel-ness.’
Then I had an inspiration. ‘Does the new Surveyor know you?’ I asked.
‘No him. He’s just been a week at the job. He rins about in a wee motor-cawr, and
wad speir the inside oot o’ a whelk.’
‘Where’s your house?’ I asked, and was directed by a wavering finger to the cottage
by the stream.
‘Well, back to your bed,’ I said, ‘and sleep in peace. I’ll take on your job for a
bit and see the Surveyor.’
He stared at me blankly; then, as the notion dawned on his fuddled brain, his face
broke into the vacant drunkard’s smile.
‘You’re the billy,’ he cried. ‘It’ll be easy eneuch managed. I’ve finished that bing
o’ stanes, so you needna chap ony mair this forenoon. Just take the barry, and wheel
eneuch metal frae yon quarry doon the road to mak anither bing the morn. My name’s
Alexander Turnbull, and I’ve been seeven year at the trade, and twenty afore that
herdin’ on Leithen Water. My freens ca’ me Ecky, and whiles Specky, for I wear glesses,
being waik i’ the sicht. Just you speak the Surveyor fair, and ca’ him Sir, and he’ll
be fell pleased. I’ll be back or midday.’
I borrowed his spectacles and filthy old hat; stripped off coat, waistcoat, and collar,
and gave him them to carry home; borrowed, too, the foul stump of a clay pipe as an
extra property. He indicated my simple tasks, and without more ado set off at an amble
bedwards. Bed may have been his chief object, but I think there was also something
left in the foot of a bottle. I prayed that he might be safe under cover before my
friends arrived on the scene.
Then I set to work to dress for the part. I opened the collar of my shirt—it was a
vulgar blue-and-white check such as ploughmen wear—and revealed a neck as brown as
any tinker’s. I rolled up my sleeves, and there was a forearm which might have been
a blacksmith’s, sunburnt and rough with old scars. I got my boots and trouser-legs
all white from the dust of the road, and hitched up my trousers, tying them with string
below the knee. Then I set to work on my face. With a handful of dust I made a water-mark
round my neck, the place where Mr Turnbull’s Sunday ablutions might be expected to
stop. I rubbed a good deal of dirt also into the sunburn of my cheeks. A roadman’s
eyes would no doubt be a little inflamed, so I contrived to get some dust in both
of mine, and by dint of vigorous rubbing produced a bleary effect.
The sandwiches Sir Harry had given me had gone off with my coat, but the roadman’s
lunch, tied up in a red handkerchief, was at my disposal. I ate with great relish
several of the thick slabs of scone and cheese and drank a little of the cold tea.
In the handkerchief was a local paper tied with string and addressed to Mr Turnbull—obviously
meant to solace his midday leisure. I did up the bundle again, and put the paper conspicuously
beside it.
My boots did not satisfy me, but by dint of kicking among the stones I reduced them
to the granite-like surface which marks a roadman’s foot-gear. Then I bit and scraped
my finger-nails
‘I canna dae’t,’ he cried again. ‘The Surveyor maun just report me. I’m for my bed.’
I asked him what was the trouble, though indeed that was clear enough.
‘The trouble is that I’m no sober. Last nicht my dochter Merran was waddit, and they
danced till fower in the byre. Me and some ither chiels sat down to the drinkin’,
and here I am. Peety that I ever lookit on the wine when it was red!’
I agreed with him about bed. ‘It’s easy speakin’,’ he moaned. ‘But I got a postcard
yestreen sayin’ that the new Road Surveyor would be round the day. He’ll come and
he’ll no find me, or else he’ll find me fou, and either way I’m a done man. I’ll awa’
back to my bed and say I’m no weel, but I doot that’ll no help me, for they ken my
kind o’ no-weel-ness.’
Then I had an inspiration. ‘Does the new Surveyor know you?’ I asked.
‘No him. He’s just been a week at the job. He rins about in a wee motor-cawr, and
wad speir the inside oot o’ a whelk.’
‘Where’s your house?’ I asked, and was directed by a wavering finger to the cottage
by the stream.
‘Well, back to your bed,’ I said, ‘and sleep in peace. I’ll take on your job for a
bit and see the Surveyor.’
He stared at me blankly; then, as the notion dawned on his fuddled brain, his face
broke into the vacant drunkard’s smile.
‘You’re the billy,’ he cried. ‘It’ll be easy eneuch managed. I’ve finished that bing
o’ stanes, so you needna chap ony mair this forenoon. Just take the barry, and wheel
eneuch metal frae yon quarry doon the road to mak anither bing the morn. My name’s
Alexander Turnbull, and I’ve been seeven year at the trade, and twenty afore that
herdin’ on Leithen Water. My freens ca’ me Ecky, and whiles Specky, for I wear glesses,
being waik i’ the sicht. Just you speak the Surveyor fair, and ca’ him Sir, and he’ll
be fell pleased. I’ll be back or midday.’
I borrowed his spectacles and filthy old hat; stripped off coat, waistcoat, and collar,
and gave him them to carry home; borrowed, too, the foul stump of a clay pipe as an
extra property. He indicated my simple tasks, and without more ado set off at an amble
bedwards. Bed may have been his chief object, but I think there was also something
left in the foot of a bottle. I prayed that he might be safe under cover before my
friends arrived on the scene.
Then I set to work to dress for the part. I opened the collar of my shirt—it was a
vulgar blue-and-white check such as ploughmen wear—and revealed a neck as brown as
any tinker’s. I rolled up my sleeves, and there was a forearm which might have been
a blacksmith’s, sunburnt and rough with old scars. I got my boots and trouser-legs
all white from the dust of the road, and hitched up my trousers, tying them with string
below the knee. Then I set to work on my face. With a handful of dust I made a water-mark
round my neck, the place where Mr Turnbull’s Sunday ablutions might be expected to
stop. I rubbed a good deal of dirt also into the sunburn of my cheeks. A roadman’s
eyes would no doubt be a little inflamed, so I contrived to get some dust in both
of mine, and by dint of vigorous rubbing produced a bleary effect.
The sandwiches Sir Harry had given me had gone off with my coat, but the roadman’s
lunch, tied up in a red handkerchief, was at my disposal. I ate with great relish
several of the thick slabs of scone and cheese and drank a little of the cold tea.
In the handkerchief was a local paper tied with string and addressed to Mr Turnbull—obviously
meant to solace his midday leisure. I did up the bundle again, and put the paper conspicuously
beside it.
My boots did not satisfy me, but by dint of kicking among the stones I reduced them
to the granite-like surface which marks a roadman’s foot-gear. Then I bit and scraped
my finger-nails
Similar Books
