On the Saturday afternoon before he was due to start, he was returning from a walk, when he caught a glimpse of a man’s figure disappearing into a small pine wood at the back of his house, and when his invaluable Mary brought him in his tea, he inquired who her visitor had been.
“Oh, sic a nice young felly!” said Mary enthusiastically. “He’s been a soger, wounded at Mons he was, and walking to Berwick to look for a job.”
Though simple, the minister was not without some sad experience of human nature, particularly the nature of wounded heroes, tramping the country for jobs.
“I hope you didn’t give him any money,” said he.
“He never askit for money!” cried Mary. “Oh, he was not that kind at a’! A maist civil young chap he was, and maist interested to hear where you were gaun, and sic like.”
The minister shook his head.
“You told him when I was leaving, and all about it, I suppose?”
“There was nae secret, was there?” demanded Mary.
Mr. Burnett looked at her seriously.
“As like as not,” said he; “he just wished to know when the man of the house would be away. Mind and keep the doors locked, Mary, and if he comes back, don’t let him into the kitchen whatever cock-and-bull story he tells.”
He knew that Mary was a sensible enough woman, and having given her this warning, he forgot the whole incident—till later.
Tuesday was fine and warm, a perfect day on which to start a journey, and about midday Mr. Burnett was packing a couple of bags with a sense of pleasant anticipation, when a telegram arrived. This was exactly how it ran:—
My friend Taylor motoring to Edinburgh today. Will pick you and luggage up at Manse about six, and bring you to my house. Don’t trouble reply, assume this suits, shall be out till late. Drummond.
“There’s no answer,” said Mr. Burnett with a smile.
He was delighted with this change in his programme, and at once countermanded his trap, and ordered Mary to set about making scones and a currant cake for tea.
“This Mr. Taylor will surely be wanting his tea before he starts,” said he, “though it’s likely he won’t want to waste too much time over it, or it will be dark long before we get to Edinburgh. So have everything ready, Mary, but just the infusing of the tea.”
Then with an easy mind, feeling that there was no hurry now, he sat down to his early dinner. As he dined he studied the telegram more carefully, and it was then that one or two slight peculiarities struck him. They seemed to him very trifling, but they set him wondering and smiling a little to himself.
He knew most of the Drummonds’ friends, and yet never before had he heard of an affluent motor-driving Mr. Taylor among them. Still, there was nothing surprising about that, for one may make a new friend any day, and one’s old friends never hear of him for long enough.
The really unusual features about this telegram were its length and clearness and the elaborate injunctions against troubling to answer it.
Robert Drummond was an excellent and Christian man, but he had never been remarkable for profuse expenditure. In fact, he guarded his bawbees very carefully indeed, and among other judicious precautions he never sent telegrams if he could help it, and when fate forced his hand, kept very rigorously within the twelve-word limit. His telegrams in consequence were celebrated more for their conciseness than their clarity. Yet here he was sending a telegram thirty-four words long, apart from the address and signature, and spending halfpenny after halfpenny with reckless profusion to make every detail explicit!
Particularly curious were the three clauses all devoted to saving Mr. Burnett the trouble of replying. Never before had Mr. Drummond shown such extraordinary consideration for a friend’s purse, and it is a discouraging feature of human nature that even the worthy Mr. Burnett felt more puzzled than touched by his generous thoughtfulness.
“Robert Drummond never wrote out that wire himself,” he concluded. “He must just have told someone what he wanted to say, and they must have written it themselves. Well, we’ll hope they paid for it too, or Robert will be terrible annoyed.”
The afternoon wore on, and as six o’clock drew near, the minister began to look out for Mr. Taylor and his car. But six o’clock passed, and quarter-past six, and still there was no sign of him. The minister began to grow a little worried lest they should have to do most of the journey in the dark, for he was an inexperienced motorist, and such a long drive by night seemed to him a formidable and risky undertaking.
At last at half-past six the thrum of a car was heard, and a few minutes later a long, raking, dark-green touring car dashed up to the door of the modest manse. The minister hurried out to welcome his guest, and then stopped dead short in sheer astonishment. Mr. Taylor was none other than the Lancashire lad.
On his part, Mr. Taylor seemed almost equally surprised.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he cried jovially. “If this isn’t the most extraordinary coincidence! When I got Robert Drummond’s note, and noticed the part of the country you lived in, I wondered if you could possibly be the same minister I’d met; but it really seemed too good to be true! Delighted to meet you again!”
He laughed loud and cheerfully, and wrung the minister’s hand like an old friend. Mr. Burnett, though less demonstrative, felt heartily pleased, and led his guest cordially into the manse parlour.
“You’ll have some tea before you start, I hope?” he inquired.
“Ra‑ther!” cried Mr. Taylor. “I’ve a Lancashire appetite for tea! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, I’ll have it in at once,” said the minister, ringing the bell, “for I suppose we ought not to postpone our start too long.”
“No hurry at all, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing himself into the easiest chair the
