Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

He stole a glance at his companion, and saw a pleasant, shrewd, boyish face, with the hard sunburnt skin of one in the prime of physical condition. Like many others of his type, Leithen liked journalists as much as he disliked men of letters — the former had had their corners smoothed by a rough life, and lacked the vanity and spiritual pride of the latter. Also he had acquired from experience a profound belief in the honour of the profession, for at various times in his public career he had put his reputation into their hands and they had not failed him. It was his maxim that if you tried to bamboozle them they were out for your blood, but that if you trusted them they would see you through.

  “Let’s hear it, Mr Crossby,” he repeated. “I’m deeply interested.”

  “Well, it’s a preposterous tale, but the natives seem to believe it. They say that some fellow, who calls himself John Macnab, has dared the magnates in these parts to prevent his killing a stag or a salmon in their preserves. He had laid down pretty stiff conditions for himself, for he has to get his beast off their ground and hand it back to them. They say he has undertaken to pay 500 pounds to any charity the owner names if he succeeds and 1000 pounds if he fails — so he must have money to burn, and it appears that he has already paid the 500 pounds. He started on Glenraden, and the old Highland chief there had every man and boy for three days watching the forest. Then on the third day, when everybody was on the mountain-tops, in sails John Macnab and kills a stag under the house windows. He reckoned on the American’s dynamite shots in his search for the Viking to hide his shot. And he would have got away with it too, if one of the young ladies hadn’t appeared on the scene and cried “Desist!” So what does this bandit do but off with his hat, makes his best bow, and says ‘Madame, your servant,’ and vanishes, leaving the chief richer by a thousand pounds. It’s Bandicott’s turn to-day and to-morrow, and the Strathlarrig household is squatting along the river banks, and the hard-working correspondent is chivvied away till the danger is past. I’m for Macnab myself. It warms my heart to think that there’s such a sportsman left alive. It’s pure Robin Hood.”

  Leithen laughed, “I back him too. Are you going to publish that story?”

  “Yes, why not? I’ve written most of it and it goes by the afternoon post.” Mr Crossby pulled out a note-book and fluttered the leaves.

  “I call it ‘The Return of Harald Blacktooth.’ Rather neat, I think. The idea is that when they started to dig up the old fellow his spirit reincarnated itself in John Macnab. I hope to have a second instalment, for something’s bound to happen at Strathlarrig to-day or to-morrow. Are you holidaying here, Sir Edward? Crask’s the name of this place, isn’t it? They told me that that mad fellow Roylance owned it.”

  Leithen nodded. He was bracing himself for another decision of the same kind as he had taken when he met Fish Benjie. Providence seemed to be forcing him to preserve his incognito only by sharing the secret.

  “But, of course,” Mr Crossby went on, “my main business here is the Viking, and I’m keen to find some way to get over Bandicott’s reticence. I don’t want to wait till the day after to-morrow and then come in with the ruck. I wonder... would it be too much to ask you to give me a leg up? I expect you know the Bandicotts?”

  “Curiously enough, I don’t. I am not sure how far I can help you, Mr Crossby, but I rather think you can help me. Are you by any happy chance a long- distance runner?”

  The journalist opened his eyes. “Well, I used to be. South London Harriers, you know. And I’m in fairly good condition at present after ten days on the Coolin rocks.”

  “Well, if I can’t give you a story, I think I can put you in the way of an adventure. Will you come up to Crask to luncheon and we’ll talk it over.”

  CHAPTER 7. THE OLD ETONIAN TRAMP

  Sir Archie got himself into the somewhat ancient dress-coat which was the best he had at Crask, and about half-past seven started his Hispana (a car in which his friends would not venture with Archie as driver) down the long hill to the gates of Strathlarrig. He was aware that somewhere in the haugh above the bridge was Leithen, but the only figure visible was that of Jimsie, the Strathlarrig gillie, who was moodily prowling about the upper end. As he passed the Wood of Larrigmore Benjie’s old pony was grazing at tether, and the old cart rested on its shafts; the embers of a fire still glowed among the pine- needles, but there was no sign of Benjie. He was admitted after a parley by Mactavish the lodge-keeper, and when he reached the door of the house he observed a large limousine being driven off to the back premises by a very smart chauffeur. Only Haripol was likely to own such a car, and Sir Archie reflected with amusement that the host of John Macnab was about to attend a full conclave of the Enemy.

  The huge, ugly drawing-room looked almost beautiful in the yellow light of evening. A fire burned on the hearth after the fashion of Highland houses even in summer, and before it stood Mr Acheson Bandicott, with a small clean- shaven man, who was obviously the distinguished Professor in whose honour the feast was given, and Colonel Raden, a picturesque figure in kilt and velvet doublet, who seemed hard put to it to follow what was clearly a technical colloquy. Agatha and Junius were admiring the sunset in the west window, and Janet was talking to a blond young man who seemed possessed of a singularly penetrating voice.

  Sir Archie was unknown to most of the company, and when his name was announced everyone except the Professor turned towards him with a lively curiosity. Old Mr Bandicott was profuse in his welcome, Junius no less cordial, Colonel Raden approving, for indeed it was not in human nature to be cold towards so friendly a being as the Laird of Crask. Sir Archie was apologetic for his social misfeasances, congratulatory about Harald Blacktooth, eager to atone for the past by an exuberant neighbourliness. “Been havin’ a rotten time with the toothache,” he told his host. “I roost up alone in my little barrack and keep company with birds... Bit of a naturalist, you know... Yes, sir, quite fit again, but my leg will never be much to boast of.”

  Colonel Raden appraised the lean, athletic figure. “You’ve been our mystery man, Sir Archibald. I’m almost sorry to meet you, for we lose our chief topic of discussion. You’re fond of stalking, they tell me. When are you coming to kill a stag at Glenraden?”

  “When will you ask me?” Sir Archie laughed. “I’m still fairly good on the hill, but just now I’m sittin’ indoors all day tuggin’ at my hair and tryin’ to compose a speech.”

  Colonel Raden’s face asked for explanations.

  “Day after to-morrow in Muirtown. Big Unionist meetin’ and I’ve got to start the ball. It’s jolly hard to know what to talk about, for I’ve a pretty high average of ignorance about everything. But I’ve decided to have a shot at foreign policy. You see, Charles—” Sir Archie stopped in a fright. He had been within an ace of giving the show away.

  “Of course. ‘Pon my soul I had forgotten that you were our candidate. It’s an uphill fight I’m afraid. The people in these parts, sir, are the most obstinate reactionaries on the face of the globe; but they’ve been voting Liberal ever since the days of John Knox.”

  Mr Bandicott regarded Sir Archie with interest.

  “So you’re standing for Parliament,” he said. “Few things impress me more in Great Britain than the way young men take up public life as if it were the natural coping-stone to their education. We have no such tradition, and we feel the absence of it. Junius would as soon think of running for Congress as of keeping a faro-saloon. Now I wonder, Sir Archibald, what induced you to take this step?”

  But Sir Archie was gone, for he had seen the beckoning eyes of Janet Raden. That young woman, ever since she had heard that the Laird of Crask was coming to dinner, had looked forward to this occasion as her culminating triumph. He had been her confidant about the desperate John Macnab, and from her he must learn the tale of her victory. Her pleasure was increased by the consciousness that she was looking her best, for she know that her black gown was a good French model and well set off her delicate colouring. She looked with eyes of friendship on him as he
limped across the room, and noted his lean distinction. No other country, she thought, produced this kind of slim, graceful, yet weathered and hard-bitten youth.

  “Do you know Mr Claybody?”

  Mr Claybody said he was delighted to meet his neighbour again. “It’s years,” he said, “since we met at Ronham. I spend my life in the train now, and never get more than a few days at a time at Haripol. But I’ve managed to secure a month this year to entertain my friends. I was looking forward in any case to seeing you at Muirtown on the 4th. I’ve been helping to organise the show, and I consider it a great score to have got Lamancha. This place had never been properly worked, and with a little efficient organisation we ought to put you in right enough. There’s no doubt Scotland is changing, and you’ll have the tide to help you.”

  Mr Claybody was a very splendid person. He looked rather like a large edition of the great Napoleon, for he had the same full fleshy face, and his head was set on a thickish neck. His blond hair was beautifully sleek and his clothes were of a perfection uncommon in September north of the Forth. Not that Mr Claybody was either fat or dandified; he was only what the ballad calls “fair of flesh,” and he employed a good tailor and an assiduous valet. His exact age was thirty-two, and he did not look older, once the observer had got over his curiously sophisticated eyes.

  But Sir Archie was giving scant attention to Mr Claybody.

  “Have you heard?” Janet broke out. “John Macnab came, saw, and didn’t conquer.’

  “I’ve heard nothing else in the last two days.”

  “And I was right! He is a gentleman.”

  “No? Tell me all about the fellow.” Sir Archie’s interest was perhaps less in the subject than in the animation which it woke in Janet’s eyes.

  But the announcement that dinner was served cut short the tale, though not before Sir Archie had noticed a sudden set of Mr Claybody’s jaw and a contraction of his eyebrows. “Wonder if he means to stick to his lawyer’s letter,” he communed with himself. “In that case it’s quod for Charles.”

  The dining-room at Strathlarrig was a remnant of the old house which had been enveloped in the immense sheath of the new. It had eighteenth-century panelling unchanged since the days when Jacobite chiefs in lace and tartan had passed their claret glasses over the water, and the pictures were all of forbidding progenitors. But the ancient narrow windows had been widened, and Sir Archie, from where he sat, had a prospect of half a mile of the river, including Lady Maisie’s Pool, bathed in the clear amber of twilight. He was on his host’s left hand, opposite the Professor, with Agatha Raden next to him: then came Junius: while Janet was between Johnson Claybody and the guest of the occasion.

  Mr Claybody still brooded over John Macnab.

  “I call the whole thing infernal impertinence,” he said in his loud, assured voice. “I confess I have ceased to admire undergraduate ‘rags.’ He threatens to visit us, and my father intends to put the matter into the hands of the police.”

  “That would be very kind,” said Janet sweetly. “You see, John Macnab won’t have the slightest trouble in beating the police.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing, Miss Raden. Here is an impudent attack on private property, and if we treat it as a joke it will only encourage other scoundrels. If the man is a gentleman, as you say he is, it makes it more scandalous.”

  “Come, come, Mr Claybody, you’re taking it too seriously.” Colonel Raden could be emphatic enough on the rights of property, but no Highlander can ever grow excited about trespass. “The fellow has made a sporting offer and is willing to risk a pretty handsome stake. I rather admire what you call his impudence. I might have done the same thing as a young man, if I had had the wits to think of it.”

  Mr Claybody was quick to recognise an unsympathetic audience. “Oh, I don’t meant that we’re actually going to make a fuss. We’ll give him a warm reception if he comes — that’s all. But I don’t like the spirit. It’s too dangerous in these unsettled times. Once let the masses get into their heads that landed property is a thing to play tricks with, and you take the pin out of the whole system. You must agree with me, Roylance?”

  Sir Archie, remembering his part, answered with guile. “Rather! Rotten game for a gentleman, I think. All the same, the chap seems rather a sportsman, so I’m in favour of letting the law alone and dealing with him ourselves. I expect he won’t have much of a look in on Haripol.”

  “I can promise you he won’t,” said Mr Claybody shortly.

  Professor Babwater observed that it would be difficult for a descendant of Harald Blacktooth to be too hard on one who followed in Harald’s steps. “The Celt,” he said, “has always sought his adventures in a fairy world. The Northman was a realist, and looked to tangible things like land and cattle. Therefore he was a conqueror and a discoverer on the terrestrial globe, while the Celt explored the mysteries of the spirit. Those who, like you, sir” — he bowed to Colonel Raden—”have both strains in their ancestry, should have successes in both worlds.”

  “They don’t mix well,” said the Colonel sadly. “There was my grandfather, who believed in Macpherson’s Ossian and ruined the family fortunes in hunting for Gaelic manuscripts on the continent of Europe. And his father was in India with Clive, and thought about nothing except blackmailing native chiefs till he made the place too hot to hold him. Look at my daughters, too. Agatha is mad about pottery and such-like, and Janet is a bandit. She’d have made a dashed good soldier, though.”

  “Thank you, papa,” said the lady. She might have objected to the description had she not seen that Sir Archie accepted it with admiring assent.

  “I suppose,” said old Mr Bandicott reflectively, “that the war was bound to leave a good deal of unsettlement. Junius missed it through being too young — never got out of a training camp — but I have noticed that those who fought in France find it difficult to discover a groove. They are energetic enough, but they won’t ‘stay put’, as we say. Perhaps this Macnab is one of the unrooted. In your country, where everybody was soldiering, the case must be far more common.”

  Mr Claybody announced that he was sick of hearing the war blamed for the average man’s deficiencies. “Every waster,” he said, “makes an excuse of being shell-shocked. I’m very clear that the war twisted nothing in a man that wasn’t twisted before.”

  Sir Archie demurred. “I don’t know. I’ve seen some pretty bad cases of fellows who used to be as sane as a judge, and came home all shot to bits in their mind.”

  “There are exceptions, of course. I’m speaking of the general rule. I turn away unemployables every day — good soldiers, maybe, but unemployable — and I doubt if they were ever anything else.”

  Something in his tone annoyed Janet.

  “You saw a lot of service, didn’t you?” she asked meekly.

  “No, worse luck! They made me stick at home and slave fourteen hours a day controlling cotton. It would have been a holiday for me to get into the trenches. But what I say is, a sane man usually remained sane. Look at Sir Archibald. We all know what a hectic time he had, and he hasn’t turned a hair.”

  “I’d like you to give me that in writing,” Sir Archie grinned. “I’ve known people who thought I was rather cracked.”

  “Anyhow, it made no difference to your nerves,” said Colonel Raden.

  “I hope not. I expect that was because I enjoyed the beastly thing. Perhaps I’m naturally a bit of a bandit — like Miss Janet.”

  “Perhaps you’re John Macnab,” said that lady.

  “Well, you’ve seen him and can judge.”

  “No. I’ll be a witness for the defence if you’re ever accused. But you mustn’t be offended at the idea. I suppose poor John Macnab is now crawling round Strathlarrig trying to find a gap between the gillies to cast a fly.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Junius laughed. “And there’s twenty special correspondents in the neighbourhood cursing his name. If they get hold of him, they’ll be savager than old Angu
s.”

  Mr Bandicott, after calling his guests’ attention to the merits of a hock which he had just acquired — it was a Johannisberg with the blue label — declared that in his belief the war would do good to English life, when the first ferment had died away.

  “As a profound admirer of British institutions,” he said, “I have sometimes thought that they needed a little shaking up and loosening. In America our classes are fluid. The rich man of to-day began life in a shack, and the next generation may return to it. It is the same with our professions. The man who starts in the law may pass to railway management, and end as the proprietor of a department store. Our belief is that it doesn’t matter how often you change your trade before you’re fifty. But an Englishman, once he settles in a profession, is fixed in it till the Day of Judgement, and in a few years he gets the mark of it so deep that he’d be a fish out of water in anything else. You can’t imagine one of your big barristers doing anything else. No fresh fields and pastures new for them. It would be a crime against Magna Carta to break loose and try company-promoting or cornering the meat trade for a little change.”

  Professor Babwater observed that in England they sometimes — in his view to the country’s detriment — became politicians.

  “That’s the narrowest groove of all.” said Mr Bandicott with conviction. “In this country, once you start in on politics you’re fixed in a class and members of a hierarchy, and you’ve got to go on, however unfitted you may be for the job, because it’s sort of high treason to weaken. In America a man tries politics as he tries other things, and if he finds the air of Washington uncongenial he quits, or tries newspapers, or Wall Street, or oil.”

  “Or the penitentiary,” said Junius.

  “And why not?” asked his father. “I deplore criminal tendencies in any public man, but the possibility of such a downfall keeps the life human. It is very different in England. The respectability of your politicians is so awful that, when one of them backslides, every man of you combines to hush it up. There would be a revolution if the people got to suspect. Can you imagine a Cabinet Minister in the police court on a common vulgar charge?”