clumsy knot, and loosed the other so that my thick grey socks bulged over the uppers. Still no sign of anything on the road. The motor I had observed half an hour ago must have gone home.
I remember an old scout in Rhodesia, who had done many queer things in his day, once telling me that the secret of playing a part was to think yourself into it. You could never keep it up, he said, unless you could manage to convince yourself that you were
Now and then a sheep wandered off the heather to stare at me. A heron flopped down to a pool in the stream and started to fish, taking no more notice of me than if I had been a milestone. On I went, trundling my loads of stone, with the heavy step of the professional. Soon I grew warm, and the dust on my face changed into solid and abiding grit. I was already counting the hours until evening should put a limit to Mr Turnbull’s monotonous toil.
Suddenly a crisp voice spoke from the road, and looking up I saw a little Ford two-seater, and a round- faced young man in a bowler hat.
“Are you Alexander Turnbull?” he asked. “I am the new County Road Surveyor. You live in Blackhopefoot, and have charge of the section from Laidlaw-byres to the Riggs? Good! A fair bit of road, Turnbull, and not badly engineered. A bit soft about a mile off, and the edge wants cleaning. See you look after that. Good-morning. You’ll know me the next time you see me.”
Clearly my get-up was good enough for the dreaded Surveyor. I went on with my work, and as the morning grew towards noon I was cheered by a little traffic. A baker’s van breasted the hill, and sold me a bag of ginger biscuits which I stowed in my trousers pocket against emergencies. Then a herd passed with sheep, and disturbed me somewhat by asking loudly, “What had become o’ Specky?”
“In bed wi’ the colic,” I replied, and the herd passed on . . .
Just about midday a big car stole down the hill, glided past and drew up a hundred yards beyond. Its three occupants descended as if to stretch their legs, and sauntered towards me.
Two of the men I had seen before from the window of the Galloway inn—one lean, sharp, and dark, the other comfortable. The third had the look of a countryman—a vet, perhaps, or a small farmer. He was dressed in ill-cut knickerbockers, and the eye in his head was as bright and wary as a hen’s.
“ ’Morning,” said the last. “That’s a fine easy job o’ yours.”
I had not looked up on their approach, and now, when accosted, I slowly and painfully straightened my back, after the manner of road men; spat vigorously, after the manner of the low Scot, and regarded them steadily before replying. I confronted three pairs of eyes that missed nothing.
“There’s waur jobs and there’s better,” I said sententiously. “I wad rather hae yours, sittin’ a’ day on your hinderlands on thae cushions. It’s you and your muckle cawrs that wreck my roads! If we a’ had oor richts, ye sud be made to mend what ye break.”
The bright-eyed man was looking at the newpaper lying beside Turnbull’s bundle.
“I see you get your paper in good time,” he said.
I glanced at it casually. “Ay, in gude time. Seein’ that that paper cam out Setterday I’m just sax days late.”
He picked it up, glanced at the superscription, and laid it down again. One of the others had been looking at my boots, and a word in German called the speaker’s attenttion to them.
“You’ve a fine taste in boots,” he said. “Those were never made by a country shoemaker.”
“They were not,” I said readily. “They were made in London. I got them frae the gentleman that was here last year for the shootin’. What was his name now?” And I scratched a forgetful head.
Again the sleek one spoke in German. “Let us get on,” he said. “This fellow is all right.”
They asked one last question.
“Did you see any one pass early this morning? He might be on a bicycle or he might be on foot.”
I very nearly fell into the trap and told a story of a bicyclist hurrying past in the grey dawn. But I had the sense to see my danger. I pretended to consider very deeply.
“I wasna up very early,” I said. “Ye see, my dochter was merrit last nicht, and we keepit up late. I opened the house door about seeven and there was naebody on the road then. Since I cam up here there has just been the baker and the Ruchill herd, besides you gentlemen.”
One of them gave me a cigar, which I smelt gingerly and stuck in Turnbull’s bundle. They got into their car and were out of sight in three minutes.
My heart leaped with an enormous relief, but I went on wheeling my stones. It was as well, for ten minutes later the car returned, one of the occupants waving a hand to me. Those gentry left nothing to chance.
I finished Turnbull’s bread and cheese, and pretty soon I had finished the stones. The next step was what puzzled me. I could not keep up this road-making business for long. A merciful Providence had kept Mr Turnbull indoors but if he appeared on the scene there would be trouble. I had a notion that the cordon was still tight round the glen, and that if I walked in any direction I should meet with questioners. But get out I must. No man’s nerve could stand more than a day of being spied on.
I stayed at my post till about five o’clock. By that time I had resolved to go down to Turnbull’s cottage at nightfall and take my chance of getting over hills in the darkness. But suddenly a new car came up the road, and slowed down a yard or two from me. A fresh wind had risen, and the occupant wanted to light a cigarette.
It was a touring car, with the tonneau full of an assortment of baggage. One man sat in it, and by an amazing chance I knew him. His name was Marmaduke Jopley, and he was an offence to creation. He was a sort of blood stockbroker, who did his business by toadying eldest sons and rich young peers and foolish old ladies. “Marmie” was a familiar figure, I understood, at balls and polo-weeks and country houses. He was an adroit scandal-monger, and would crawl a mile on his belly to anything that had a title or a million. I had a business introduction to his firm when I came to London, and he was good enough to ask me to dinner at his club. There he
