by John Buchan
‘“Supposing I slip off now,” I said. “I have a general notion of the land, and I might get over the hills without anybody seeing me.” ‘He shook his head. “Ye wouldn’t travel a mile. Your description has been circulated and a’ body’s lookin’ for ye — a man in a grey flannel suit and soft shoes wi’ a red face and nae hat. Guid kens what the doctor has said about ye, but the countryside is on the look-out for a dangerous, and maybe lunattic, criminal. There’s a reward offered of nae less than twenty pound.”
‘“Can you not take me with you to Kirk Aller?” I asked despairingly.
‘“Aye, ye can stop wi’ me. But what better wad ye be in Kirk Aller? That’s where the Procurator Fiscal bides.”
‘Then he put on his spectacles and looked at me solemnly.
‘“I’ve taken a fancy to ye, Mr Brown, and ye can tell the world that. I ask you, are ye acquaint wi’ horses?”
‘I answered that I had lived among them all my life, and had been in the cavalry before I went into the Air Force.
‘“I guessed it by your face. Horses have a queer trick o’ leavin’ their mark on a body. Now, because I like ye, I’ll make a proposeetion to ye that I would make to no other man... I’m without a ring-master. Joseph Japp, who for ten years has had the job with me, is lyin’ wi’ the influenzy at Berwick. I could make shift with Dublin Davie, but Davie has no more presence than a messan dog, and forbye Joseph’s clothes wouldna fit him. When I cast my eyes on ye this mornin’ after hearin’ Tam Doig’s news, I says to mysel’, ‘Thou art the man.’”
‘Of course I jumped at the offer. I was as safe in Kirk Aller, as Joseph Japp’s understudy, as I was in my own house. Besides, I liked the notion; it would be a good story to tell Archie. But I said it could only be for one night, and that I must leave tomorrow, and he agreed. “I want to make a good show for a start in Kirk Aller — forbye, Joseph will be ready to join me at Langshiels.”
‘I borrowed the old boy’s razor and had a shave and a wash, while he was cooking breakfast. After we had fed he fetched my predecessor’s kit. It fitted me well enough, but Lord! I looked a proper blackguard. The cord breeches had been recently cleaned, but the boots were like a pair of dilapidated buckets, and the coat would have made my tailor weep. Mr McGowan himself put on a frock-coat and a high collar and spruced himself up till he looked exactly like one of those high-up Irish dealers you see at the Horse Show — a cross between a Cabinet Minister and a Methodist parson. He said the ringmaster should ride beside the chief exhibit, so we bustled out and I climbed up in front of a wagon which bore a cage containing two very low-spirited lions. I was given a long whip, and told to make myself conspicuous.
‘I didn’t know Kirk Aller well, so I had no fear of being recognised either as myself or as the pseudo-Brumby. The last time I had been there was when I had motored over from Larristane to dine with the Aller Shooting Club. My present entry was of a more sensational kind. I decided to enjoy myself and to attract all the notice I could, and I certainly succeeded. Indeed, you might say I received an ovation. As it happened it was a public holiday, and the streets were pretty full. We rumbled up the cobbled Westgate, and down the long High Street, with the pavements on both sides lined with people and an attendant mob of several hundred children. The driver was a wizened little fellow in a jockey cap, but I was the principal figure on the box. I gave a fine exhibition with my whip, and when we slowed down I picked out conspicuous figures in the crowd and chaffed them. I thought I had better use Cockney patter, as being more in keeping with my job, and I made a happy blend of the table-talk of my stud-groom and my old batman in the regiment. It was rather a high-class performance and you’d be surprised how it went down. There was one young chap with a tremendous head of hair that I invited to join his friends in the cage, and just then one of the dejected lions let out a growl, and I said that Mamma was calling to her little Percy. And there was an old herd from the hills, who had been looking upon the wine-cup, and who, in a voice like a fog-horn, wanted to know what we fed the beasts on. Him I could not refrain from answering in his own tongue. “Braxy, my man,” I cried, “The yowes ye lost when we were fou last Boswell’s Fair.” I must have got home somehow, for the crowd roared, and his friends thumped the old chap on the back and shouted: “That’s a guid ane! He had you there, Tam.”
‘My triumphant procession came to an end on the Aller Green, where the show was to be held. A canvas palisade had been set up round a big stretch of ground, and the mob of children tailed off at the gate. Inside most of our truck had already arrived. The stadium for the circus had been marked off, and tiers of wooden seats were being hammered together. A big tent had been set up, which was to house the menagerie, and several smaller tents were in process of erection. I noticed that the members of the troupe looked at me curiously till Mr McGowan arrived and introduced me. “This is Mr Brown, a friend of mine,” he said, “who will take on Joe Japp’s job for the night.” And, aside to me, “Man, I heard ye comin’ down the High Street. Ye did fine. Ye’re a great natural talent for the profession.” After that we were all very friendly, and the whole company had a snack together in one of the tents — bread and cheese and bottled beer.
‘The first thing I did was to make a bundle of Brumby’s clothes, which Mr McGowan promised to send back to Craigiedean when the coast was clear. Then I bribed a small boy to take a telegram to the Post Office — to Archie at Larristane, saying I had been detained and hoped to return next day. After that I took off my coat and worked like a beaver. It was nearly six o’clock before we had everything straight, and the show opened at seven, so we were all a bit the worse for wear when we sat down to high tea. It’s a hard job an artiste’s, as old McGowan observed.
‘I never met a queerer, friendlier, more innocent company, for the proprietor seemed to have set out to collect originals, and most of them had been with him for years. The boss of the menagerie was an exsailor, who had a remarkable way with beasts; he rarely spoke a word, but just grinned and whistled through broken teeth. The clown, who said his name was Sammle Dreep, came from Paisley, and was fat enough not to need the conventional bolster. Dublin Davie, my second in command, was a small Irishman who had been an ostler, and limped owing to having been with the Dublin Fusiliers at Gallipoli. The clown had a wife who ran the commissariat, when she wasn’t appearing in the ring as Zenobia, the Pride of the Sahara. Then there were the Sisters Wido — a young married couple with two children; and the wife of a man who played the clarionet — figured in the bill as Elise the Equestrienne. I had a look at the horses, which were the ordinary skinny, broad-backed, circus ponies. I found out later that they were so well trained that I daresay they could have done their turns in the dark.
‘At a quarter to seven we lit the naphtha flares and our orchestra started in. McGowan told me to get inside Japp’s dress-clothes, and rather unwillingly I obeyed him, for I had got rather to fancy my morning’s kit. I found there was only a coat and waistcoat, for I was allowed to retain the top-boots and cords. Happily the shirt was clean, but I had a solitaire with a sham diamond as big as a shilling, and the cut of the coat would have been considered out-of-date by a self-respecting waiter in Soho. I had also a scarlet silk handkerchief to stuff in my bosom, a pair of dirty white kid gloves, and an immense coach whip.
‘The menagerie was open, but that night the chief attraction was the circus, and I don’t mind saying that about the best bit of the circus was myself. In one of the intervals McGowan insisted on shaking hands and telling me that I was wasted in any other profession than a showman’s. The fact is I was rather above myself, and entered into what you might call the spirit of the thing. We had the usual Dick Turpin’s ride to York, and an escape of Dakota Dan (one of the Sisters Wido) from Red Indians (the other Wido, Zenobia and Elise, with about a ton of feathers on their heads). The Equestrienne equestered, and the Widos hopped through hoops, and all the while I kept up my patter and spouted all the rot I could remember.
‘The clown
was magnificent. He had a Paisley accent you could have cut like a knife, but he prided himself on talking aristocratic English. He had a lot of badinage with Zenobia about her life in the desert. One bit I remember. She kept on referring to bulbuls, and asked him if he had ever seen a bull-bull. He said he had, for he supposed it was a male coo-coo. But he was happiest at my expense. I never heard a chap with such a flow of back-chat. A funny thing - but when he wasn’t calling me “Little Pansy-face”, he addressed me as “Your Grace” and “Me Lord Dook”, and hoped that the audience would forgive my négligé attire, seeing my coronet hadn’t come back from the wash.
‘Altogether the thing went down with a snap from beginning to end, and when old McGowan, all dressed up with a white waistcoat, made a speech at the end and explained about the next performances he got a perfect hurricane of applause. After that we had to tidy up. There was the usual trouble with several procrastinating drunks, who wanted to make a night of it. One of them got into the ring and tried to have a row with me. He was a big loutish fellow with small eyes and red hair, and had the look of a betting tout. He stuck his face close to mine and bellowed at me:
‘“I ken ye fine, ye — ! I seen ye at Lanerick last back-end... Ye ca’d yoursel’ Gentleman Geordie, and ye went off wi’ my siller. By God, I’ll get it out o’ ye, ye — welsher.”
‘I told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, and that I was not a bookie and had never been near Lanerick, but he refused to be convinced. The upshot was that Davie and I had to chuck him out, blaspheming like a navvy and swearing that he was coming back with his pals to do me in.
‘We were a very contented lot of mountebanks at supper that night. The takings were good and the menagerie also had been popular, and we all felt that we had been rather above our form. McGowan, for whom I was acquiring a profound affection, beamed on us, and produced a couple of bottles of blackstrap to drink the health of the Colossal Circassian Circus. That old fellow was a nonesuch. He kept me up late — for I stopped with him in his caravan — expounding his philosophy of life. It seemed he had been intended for the kirk, but had had too much joie de vivre for the pulpit. He was a born tramp, and liked waking up most days in a new place, and he loved his queer outfit and saw the comedy of it. “For three and thirty years I’ve travelled the country,” he said, “and I’ve been a public benefactor, Mr Brown. I’ve put colour into many a dowie life, and I’ve been a godsend to the bairns. There’s no vulgarity in my performances - they’re a’ as halesome as spring water.” He quoted Burns a bit, and then he got on to politics, for he was a great Radical, and maintained that Scotland was about the only true democracy, because a man was valued precisely for what he was and no more. “Ye’re a laird, Mr Brown, but ye’re a guid fellow, and this night ye’ve shown yourself to be a man and a brither. What do you and me care for mawgnates? We take no stock in your Andra Carnegies and your Dukes o’ Burminster.” And as I dropped off to sleep he was obliging with a verse of “A man’s a man for a’ that”.
‘I woke in excellent spirits, thinking what a good story I should have to tell when I returned to Larristane. My plan was to get off as soon as possible, take the train to Langshiels, and then hire. I could see that McGowan was sorry to part with me, but he agreed that it was too unhealthy a countryside for me to dally in. There was to be an afternoon performance, so everybody had to hustle, and there was no reason for me to linger. After breakfast I borrowed an old ulster from him, for I had to cover up my finery, and a still older brown bowler to replace the topper I had worn on the preceding day.
‘Suddenly we heard a fracas, and the drunk appeared who had worried me the night before. He had forced his way in and was pushing on through an expostulating crowd. When he saw me he made for me with a trail of blasphemy. He was perfectly sober now and looked very ugly.
‘“Gie me back my siller,” he roared. “Gie me back the five-pound note I won at Lanerick when I backed Kettle o’ Fish.” If I hadn’t warded him off he would have taken me by the throat.
‘I protested again that he was mistaken, but I might as well have appealed to a post. He swore with every variety of oath that I was Gentleman Geordie, and that I had levanted with his winnings. As he raved I began to see a possible explanation of his madness. Some bookmaker, sporting my sort of kit, had swindled him. I had ridden several times in steeplechases at Lanerick and he had seen me and got my face in his head, and mixed me up with the fraudulent bookie.
‘It was a confounded nuisance, and but for the principle of the thing I would have been inclined to pay up. As it was we had to fling him out, and he went unwillingly, doing all the damage he could. His parting words were that he and his pals weren’t done with me, and that though he had to wait fifty years he would wring my neck.
‘After that I thought I had better waste no time, so I said good-bye to McGowan and left the show-ground by the back entrance close to the Aller. I had a general notion of the place, and knew that if I kept down the river I could turn up a lane called the Water Wynd, and get to the station without traversing any of the main streets. I had ascertained that there was a train at 10.30 which would get me to Langshiels at 11.15, so that I could be at Larristane for luncheon.
‘I had underrated the persistence of my enemy. He and his pals had picketed all the approaches to the show, and when I turned into the Water Wynd I found a fellow there, who at the sight of me blew a whistle. In a second or two he was joined by three others, among them my persecutor.
‘“We’ve gotten ye noo,” he shouted, and made to collar me.
‘“If you touch me,” I said, “it’s assault, and a case for the police.”
‘“That’s your game, is it?” he cried. “Na, na, we’ll no trouble the pollis. They tell me the Law winna help me to recover a bet, so I’ll just trust to my nieves. Will ye pay up, ye — , or take the bloodiest bashin’ ye ever seen?”
‘I was in an uncommon nasty predicament. There was nobody in the Wynd but some children playing, and the odds were four to one. If I fought I’d get licked. The obvious course of safety was to run up the Wynd towards the High Street, where I might find help. But that would mean a street row and the intervention of the police, a case in court, and the disclosure of who I was. If I broke through and ran back to McGowan I would be no farther forward. What was perfectly clear was that I couldn’t make the railway station without landing myself in the worst kind of mess.
‘There wasn’t much time to think, for the four men were upon me. I hit out at the nearest, saw him go down, and then doubled up the Wynd and into a side alley on the right.
‘By the mercy of Providence this wasn’t a cul-de-sac, but twisted below the old walls of the burgh, and then became a lane between gardens. The pursuit was fairly hot, and my accursed boots kept slipping on the cobbles and cramped my form. They were almost upon me before I reached the lane, but then I put on a spurt, and was twenty yards ahead when it ended in a wall with a gate. The gate was locked, but the wall was low, and I scrambled over it, and dropped into the rubbish heap of a garden.
‘There was no going back, so I barged through some gooseberry bushes, skirted a lawn, squattered over a big square of gravel, and charged through the entrance gates of a suburban villa. My enemies plainly knew a better road, for when I passed the entrance they were only a dozen yards off on my left. That compelled me to turn to the right, the direction away from Kirk Aller. I was now on a highway where I could stretch myself, and it was not long before I shook off the pursuit. They were whiskyfied ruffians and not much good in a hunt. It was a warm morning, but I did not slacken till I had put a good quarter of a mile between us. I saw them come round a turn, lumbering along, cooked to the world, so I judged I could slow down to an easy trot.
‘I was cut off from my lines of communication, and the only thing to do was to rejoin them by a detour. The Aller valley, which the railway to Langshiels followed, gave me a general direction. I remembered that about six miles off there was a station called Rubersdean, an
d that there was an afternoon train which got to Langshiels about three o’clock. I preferred to pick it up there, for I didn’t mean to risk showing my face inside Kirk Aller again.
‘By this time I had got heartily sick of my adventures. Being chased like a fox is amusing enough for an hour or two, but it soon palls. I was becoming a regular outlaw — wanted by the police for breaking into a nursing-home and stealing a suit, and very much wanted by various private gentlemen on the charge of bilking. Everybody’s hand seemed to be against me, except old McGowan’s, and I had had quite enough of it. I wanted nothing so much as to be back at Larristane, and I didn’t believe I would tell Archie the story, for I was fed up with the whole business.
‘I didn’t dare go near a public-house, and the best I could do for luncheon was a bottle of ginger-beer and some biscuits which I bought at a sweetie-shop. To make a long story short, I reached Rubersdean in time, and as there were several people on the platform I waited till the train arrived before showing myself. I got into a third-class carriage at the very end of it.
‘The only occupants were a woman and a child, and my appearance must have been pretty bad, for the woman looked as if she wanted to get out when she saw me. But I said it was a fine day and “guid for the crops”, and I suppose she was reassured by my Scotch tongue, for she quieted down. The child was very inquisitive, and they discussed me in whispers. “What’s that man, Mamaw?” it asked. “Never mind, Jimmie.”
“But I want to ken, Mamaw.”
“Wheesht, dearie. He’s a crool man. He kills the wee mawpies.” At that the child set up a howl, but I felt rather flattered, for a rabbit-trapper was a respectable profession compared to those with which I had recently been credited.
At the station before Langshiels they collect the tickets. I had none, so when the man came round I could only offer a Bank of England five-pound note. He looked at it very suspiciously, asked me rudely if I had nothing smaller, consulted the station-master, and finally with a very ill grace got me change out of the latter’s office. This hung up the train for a good five minutes, and you could see by their looks that they thought I was a thief. The thing had got so badly on my nerves that I could have wept. I counted the minutes till we reached Langshiels, and I was not cheered by the behaviour of my travelling companion. She was clearly convinced of the worst, and when we came out of a tunnel she was jammed into the farthest corner, clutching her child and her bag, and looking as if she had escaped from death. I can tell you it was a thankful man that shot out on to the platform at Langshiels...
