'It's not only the shock,' he said aloud; 'I don't like her breathing. Might be
pneumonia there, and if so ' He shook his head significantly, turned and bent over his bag, and, extracting from it some temporary restoratives, applied these as best the circumstances permitted. When he had finished, the cart, a rough farm waggon as deep and heavy as a tumbrel, stood ready at the door. The infant was swaddled in blankets and placed carefully in one corner, then they lifted Mary up and placed her beside her child. Finally, Renwick clambered in and, while he supported Mary in his arms, the crofter jumped into his seat and whipped up the horse. Thus they set out into the night for the Cottage Hospital, the strange ambulance bumping and jolting slowly along, the doctor protecting the limp figure in his arms as best he could from the shocks of the rough road.
The old woman saw them disappear, then she sighed, turned, shut the byre door, and with bowed back went slowly into her house. As she entered the kitchen, the grandfather's clock in the corner chimed eight, solemn strokes. She went quietly to the chest of drawers, picked up her Bible and, slowly assuming her old steel spectacles, opened the book at random and began soberly to read.
XII
THE wind, which blew fiercely in the west, blew still more furiously in the east. On the Sunday afternoon when havoc ranged in Levenford and amongst the surrounding townships, still greater devastation roamed amongst the counties of the Eastern seaboard.
In Edinburgh, as Denis buffeted his way along Princes Street, the wind, tearing along the grey, weather-beaten thoroughfare, ballooned his coat about his ears and lifted him off his feet. He loved that wind; it made him feel strong to fight a passage against it. Hat in hand, his hair disordered, his lips parted, he cleaved his way along. The wind sang against his teeth like the song of a gigantic humming' top, and he sang too, or uttered spontaneous, inarticulate sounds, expressive of the virile exuberance that seethed within him. Of the few people in the street, most turned involuntarily to look at him, and muttered enviously, from blue, shivering lips, 'My certies, he's a hardy chiel, that one!'
It was quarter to four. Denis had made an early tea at McKinley's 'Family and Commercial Temperance Hotel.' They did things well there no show, indeed, but a lavish abundance of good food and he had eaten his way through a large trencher of sausages and white pudding, cleared a plateful of oatcakes, and emptied the teapot in Ma McKinley's own private parlour. Old Mother McKinley would do anything for Denis just the way he had with her and with most people and he always went there when in Edinburgh. She had, in parting, given him a thick packet of sandwiches to sustain his body until his late arrival in Dundee and a large, smacking embrace to support his spirit until she saw him again. It was good to have friends like that, he thought warmly, as he felt the comforting wad of sandwiches buttoned against his side, whilst he strode out on his way to Granton, to take the ferryboat across the Firth of Forth for Burntisland. His only grievance against the weather was his fear that it might prevent them running the ferry, but if there was no boat, he was, he told himself facetiously, feeling vigorous enough to swim across the Firth.
Although it blew so hard, there was as yet no rain and, as it was only three miles to Granton, he disdained the usual conveyance to the ferry and decided to walk. It was fine to be alive! This wind intoxicated him; the feel of it upon his cheek made him want to live for ever. As he drove his feet hard upon the pavement, he knew he would cover the distance easily under the hour at his disposal.
His reflections, as he strode along, were pleasant. Business was opening out beyond his expectations and to- morrow, in Dundee, he hoped to consolidate his position with Blain and Company. Young Mr. Blain was the force in the firm; he liked him immensely and he felt that if he could convince him, persuade him to deal with Findlay's, the day would be won. He began to think out a smart, little speech to open his conversation on the morrow. He declaimed the address magnificently to the wind and to the empty streets as he walked along, enjoying himself immensely, emphasising his points by telling gesticulations, so that by the time Granton was reached he had riddled young Mr. Blain with epigrams, bombarded him with technicalities, and reduced him to impotence by solid argument.
Now, to his relief, he observed that the ferry bumped at her smari
pier with every indication of departure, and hastening his steps, he went on board the vessel. From the low deck of the boat the Firth looked darker and more threatening than from the jetty, with whitfe spume slapping over the crests of the slate-grey waves. The smtill boat rocked heavily and the rope hawsers attached from the vessel to the squat bollards on the quay creaked and thumped, as the combined strain of wind and tide pulled upon them. Denis, however, was an excellent sailor and, unperturbed, he joined three other passengers who were gathered in the bow of the boat, looking gloomily across the Firth, a disconsolate sense of danger binding them closer together.
'I don't like the look o' it,' said one.
'Ay, it's gey and threatenin' like,' said another.
'I'm beginning to wish I had taken the wife's advice and stayed at home ; ' said the third, with a feeble attempt at jocularity. Denis rallied them.
'Do you think the captain would put out the boat if he wasn't sure of getting over?' he cried heartily. 'It's only five miles across a mere nothing. Why, in twenty years we'll be jumping across a ditch like this, or walking over on stilts.'
They looked at him doubtfully, but he laughed, joked, bantered them until they surrendered, and, in the space of five minutes, he had them enrolled under his banner. They accepted him as a leader; their fearful anticipation vanished; indeed, one of the group produced a small, flat bottle.
'Will we have a wee drappie before we start?' he asked, with a wink. It was the height of conviviality! The host partook first, then the two others sipped with the moderation of guests, but Denis refused.
'I'm so full of sausage, I'm afraid to chance it,' he replied, with a gesture of broad pantomime towards the unruly water, indicating that his sole desire in life was to retain the excellent meal he had just paid for. They laughed delightedly; the fact that this reckless, intrepid youth might be as ridiculously ill as he suggested filled them with a returning sense of their own worth. And Denis encouraged them, adapting himself to the level of their society with verve and telling stories with such spirit that they did not fully observe the departure or the tossing in the Firth. One grew greenish and another swallowed queasily, but they would have died rather than disgrace themselves in the eyes of this young Hector now relating to them, in the climax of his fifth story, the brilliant repartee which the Irishman had made to the Englishman and the Scotsman, under circumstances of a particularly ludicrous and embarrassing character.
The few other passengers were less assured and remained huddled together as the boat pitched about like a cockleshell in the stormy water. They clung to the stanchions, lay upon the deck, or were openly sick, whilst the spray-laden wind howled through the rigging, and the fierce, snapping waves burst over the low bulwarks, covering the deck with a sheet of water which flooded from side to side with each roll of the ship.
But at length they drew near Burntisland, passed out of the stormy water and, after considerable manoeuvring, made fast. The skipper of the little vessel came of! the bridge, dripping in his oilskins.
'I'm not sorry to be in,' Denis heard him say. 'I didna like it. It's the worst crossing we've ever made.'
The passengers disembarked hastily, although some had suffered so acutely that they were obliged to be carried off the ship on to the jetty, and here the small band of heroes bade Denis farewell.
'You're not going any further, then?' said Denis.
'Na! Na!' said the spokesman, looking up at the clouds. 'We're all Burntisland lads, praise be, and it'll be a long time before we have another jaunt o' this nature to Edinburgh. Hame looks guid enough to me after that blatter o' sea.'
They shook hands with him, solemnly, feeling that they would never forget him. 'Man, he was a cure, yon fellow that cam' ower the Forth i' the storm,' they would repeat to each other long afterwards. 'He didna give a hang about anything.'
When they had left him, Denis made his way to the station. The train for Dundee, being run in conjunction with the Granton ferry, and due to depart at 5.27 P.M., was already waiting, and as it was now twenty minutes past five, he walked along the platform, looking through the windows to secure an empty third-class compartment. A larger-
