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The Thirty-nine Steps-Part4_John Buchan(1875-1940)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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take some hours to fix the blame on me, and several more to



identify the fellow who got on board the train at St Pancras.

it was the same jolly, clear spring weather, and I simply could



not contrive to feel careworn. Indeed I was in better spirits than I

had been for months. Over a long ridge of moorland I took my



road, skirting the side of a high hill which the herd had called

Cairnsmore of Fleet. Nesting curlews and plovers were crying everywhere,



and the links of green pasture by the streams were dotted

with young lambs. All the slackness of the past months was slipping



from my bones, and I stepped out like a four-year-old. By-and-by I

came to a swell of moorland which dipped to the vale of a little



river, and a mile away in the heather I saw the smoke of a train.

The station, when I reached it, proved to be ideal for my purpose.



The moor surged up around it and left room only for the single

line, the slender siding, a waiting-room, an office, the station-



master's cottage, and a tiny yard of gooseberries and sweet-william.

There seemed no road to it from anywhere, and to increase the



desolation the waves of a tarn lapped on their grey granite beach

half a mile away. I waited in the deep heather till I saw the smoke



of an east-going train on the horizon. Then I approached the tiny

booking-office and took a ticket for Dumfries.



The only occupants of the carriage were an old shepherd and his

dog - a wall-eyed brute that I mistrusted. The man was asleep, and



on the cushions beside him was that morning's SCOTSMAN. Eagerly I

seized on it, for I fancied it would tell me something.



There were two columns about the Portland Place Murder, as it

was called. My man Paddock had given the alarm and had the milkman



arrested. Poor devil, it looked as if the latter had earned his

sovereign hardly; but for me he had been cheap at the price, for he



seemed to have occupied the police for the better part of the day. In

the latest news I found a further instalment of the story. The milkman



had been released, I read, and the true criminal, about whose identity

the police were reticent, was believed to have got away from London



by one of the northern lines. There was a short note about me as the

owner of the flat. I guessed the police had stuck that in, as a clumsy



contrivance to persuade me that I was unsuspected.

There was nothing else in the paper, nothing about foreign



politics or Karolides, or the things that had interested Scudder. I

laid it down, and found that we were approaching the station at



which I had got out yesterday. The potato-digging station-master

had been gingered up into some activity, for the west-going train



was waiting to let us pass, and from it had descended three men

who were asking him questions. I supposed that they were the local



police, who had been stirred up by Scotland Yard, and had traced

me as far as this one-horse siding. Sitting well back in the shadow I



watched them carefully. One of them had a book, and took down

notes. The old potato-digger seemed to have turned peevish, but



the child who had collected my ticket was talking volubly. All the

party looked out across the moor where the white road departed. I



hoped they were going to take up my tracks there.

As we moved away from that station my companion woke up.



He fixed me with a wandering glance, kicked his dog viciously, and

inquired where he was. Clearly he was very drunk.



'That's what comes o' bein' a teetotaller,' he observed in bitter

regret.



I expressed my surprise that in him I should have met a blue-

ribbon stalwart.



'Ay, but I'm a strong teetotaller,' he said pugnaciously. 'I took

the pledge last Martinmas, and I havena touched a drop o' whisky



sinsyne. Not even at Hogmanay, though I was sair temptit.'

He swung his heels up on the seat, and burrowed a frowsy head



into the cushions.

'And that's a' I get,' he moaned. 'A heid hetter than hell fire, and



twae een lookin' different ways for the Sabbath.'

'What did it?' I asked.



'A drink they ca' brandy. Bein' a teetotaller I keepit off the

whisky, but I was nip-nippin' a' day at this brandy, and I doubt I'll



no be weel for a fortnicht.' His voice died away into a splutter, and

sleep once more laid its heavy hand on him.



My plan had been to get out at some station down the line, but

the train suddenly gave me a better chance, for it came to a standstill



at the end of a culvert which spanned a brawling porter-coloured

river. I looked out and saw that every carriage window was closed



and no human figure appeared in the landscape. So I opened the

door, and dropped quickly into the tangle of hazels which edged



the line.




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