Тридцать девять ступеней

           Mytoiletcomplete,Itookupthebarrowandbeganmyjourneystoandfromthequarryahundredyardsoff.

           IrememberanoldscoutinRhodesia,whohaddonemanyqueerthingsinhisday,oncetellingmethatthesecretofplayingapartwastothinkyourselfintoit.Youcouldneverkeepitup,hesaid,unlessyoucouldmanagetoconvinceyourselfthatyouwereit.SoIshutoffallotherthoughtsandswitchedthemontotheroad-mending.Ithoughtofthelittlewhitecottageasmyhome,IrecalledtheyearsIhadspentherdingonLeithenWater,Imademyminddwelllovinglyonsleepinabox-bedandabottleofcheapwhisky.Stillnothingappearedonthatlongwhiteroad.

           Nowandthenasheepwanderedofftheheathertostareatme.Aheronfloppeddowntoapoolinthestreamandstartedtofish,takingnomorenoticeofmethanifIhadbeenamilestone.OnIwent,trundlingmyloadsofstone,withtheheavystepoftheprofessional.SoonIgrewwarm,andthedustonmyfacechangedintosolidandabidinggrit.IwasalreadycountingthehourstilleveningshouldputalimittoMrTurnbull’smonotonoustoil.

           Suddenlyacrispvoicespokefromtheroad,andlookingupIsawalittleFordtwo-seater,andaround-facedyoungmaninabowlerhat.

           “AreyouAlexanderTurnbull?”heasked.“IamthenewCountyRoadSurveyor.YouliveatBlackhopefoot,andhavechargeofthesectionfromLaidlawbyrestotheRiggs?Good!Afairbitofroad,Turnbull,andnotbadlyengineered.Alittlesoftaboutamileoff,andtheedgeswantcleaning.Seeyoulookafterthat.