Mr. Standfast - John Buchan (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

side away from the platform, and was immediately seized upon by a sleepy Seaforth who thought I contemplated suicide.

“Let me go,” I said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Let him gang, jock,” said another voice. “Ye ken what a man’s like when he’s been on the bash. The cauld air’ll sober him.”

I was released, and after some gymnastics dropped on the metals and made my way round the rear of the train. As I clambered on the platform it began to move, and a face looked out of one of the back carriages. It was Linklater and he recognized me. He tried to get out, but the door was promptly slammed by an indignant porter. I heard him protest, and he kept his head out till the train went round the curve. That cooked my goose all right. He would wire to the police from the next station.

Meantime in that clean, bare, chilly place there was only one traveller. He was a slim young man, with a kit-bag and a gun-case. His clothes were beautiful, a green Homburg hat, a smart green tweed overcoat, and boots as brightly polished as a horse chestnut. I caught his profile as he gave up his ticket and to my amazement I recognized it.

The stationmaster looked askance at me as I presented myself, dilapidated and dishevelled, to the official gaze. I tried to speak in a tone of authority.

“Who is the man who has just gone out?”

“Whaur’s your ticket?”

“I had no time to get one at Muirtown, and as you see I have left my luggage behind me. Take it out of that pound and I’ll come back for the change. I want to know if that was Sir Archibald Roylance.”

He looked suspiciously at the note. “I think that’s the name. He’s a captain up at the Fleein’ School. What was ye wantin’ with him?”

I charged through the booking-office and found my man about to enter a big grey motorcar.

“Archie,” I cried and beat him on the shoulders.

He turned round sharply. “What the devil⁠—! Who are you?” And then recognition crept into his face and he gave a joyous shout. “My holy aunt! The General disguised as Charlie Chaplin! Can I drive you anywhere, sir?”

IX I Take the Wings of a Dove

“Drive me somewhere to breakfast, Archie,” I said, “for I’m perishing hungry.”

He and I got into the tonneau, and the driver swung us out of the station road up a long incline of hill. Sir Archie had been one of my subalterns in the old Lennox Highlanders, and had left us before the Somme to join the Flying Corps. I had heard that he had got his wings and had done well before Arras, and was now training pilots at home. He had been a lighthearted youth, who had endured a good deal of rough-tonguing from me for his sins of omission. But it was the casual class of lad I was looking for now.

I saw him steal amused glances at my appearance.

“Been seein’ a bit of life, sir?” he inquired respectfully.

“I’m being hunted by the police,” I said.

“Dirty dogs! But don’t worry, sir; we’ll get you off all right. I’ve been in the same fix myself. You can lie snug in my little log hut, for that old image Gibbons won’t blab. Or, tell you what, I’ve got an aunt who lives near here and she’s a bit of a sportsman. You can hide in her moated grange till the bobbies get tired.”

I think it was Archie’s calm acceptance of my position as natural and becoming that restored my good temper. He was far too well bred to ask what crime I had committed, and I didn’t propose to enlighten him much. But as we swung up the moorland road I let him know that I was serving the Government, but that it was necessary that I should appear to be unauthenticated and that therefore I must dodge the police. He whistled his appreciation.

“Gad, that’s a deep game. Sort of camouflage? Speaking from my experience it is easy to overdo that kind of stunt. When I was at Misieux the French started out to camouflage the caravans where they keep their pigeons, and they did it so damned well that the poor little birds couldn’t hit ’em off, and spent the night out.”

We entered the white gates of a big aerodrome, skirted a forest of tents and huts, and drew up at a shanty on the far confines of the place. The hour was half past four, and the world was still asleep. Archie nodded towards one of the hangars, from the mouth of which projected the propeller end of an aeroplane.

“I’m by way of flyin’ that bus down to Farnton tomorrow,” he remarked. “It’s the new Shark-Gladas. Got a mouth like a tree.”

An idea flashed into my mind.

“You’re going this morning,” I said.

“How did you know?” he exclaimed. “I’m due to go today, but the grouse up in Caithness wanted shootin’ so badly that I decided to wangle another day’s leave. They can’t expect a man to start for the south of England when he’s just off a frowsy journey.”

“All the same you’re going to be a stout fellow and start in two hours’ time. And you’re going to take me with you.”

He stared blankly, and then burst into a roar of laughter. “You’re the man to go tiger-shootin’ with. But what price my commandant? He’s not a bad chap, but a trifle shaggy about the fetlocks. He won’t appreciate the joke.”

“He needn’t know. He mustn’t know. This is an affair between you and me till it’s finished. I promise you I’ll make it all square with the Flying Corps. Get me down to Farnton before evening, and you’ll have done a good piece of work for the country.”

“Right-o! Let’s have a tub and a bit of breakfast, and then I’m your man. I’ll tell them to get the bus ready.”

In Archie’s bedroom I washed and shaved