Тридцать девять ступеней

           WhenItoldhimhowmuchIowedhim,hegruntedsomethingabout“aeguidturndeservin’anitherv”Youwouldhavethoughtfromourleave-takingthatwehadpartedindisgust.

           Hislopwasacheerysoul,whochatteredallthewayoverthepassanddownthesunnyvaleofAnnan.ItalkedofGallowaymarketsandsheepprices,andhemadeuphismindIwasa“pack-shepherd”fromthoseparts—whateverthatmaybe.Myplaidandmyoldhat,asIhavesaid,gavemeafinetheatricalScotslook.Butdrivingcattleisamortallyslowjob,andwetookthebetterpartofthedaytocoveradozenmiles.

           IfIhadnothadsuchananxiousheartIwouldhaveenjoyedthattime.Itwasshiningblueweather,withaconstantlychangingprospectofbrownhillsandfargreenmeadows,andacontinualsoundoflarksandcurlewsandfallingstreams.ButIhadnomindforthesummer,andlittleforHislop’sconversation,forasthefatefulfifteenthofJunedrewnearIwasoverweighedwiththehopelessdifficultiesofmyenterprise.

           IgotsomedinnerinahumbleMoffatpublic-house,andwalkedthetwomilestothejunctiononthemainline.Thenightexpressforthesouthwasnotduetillnearmidnight,andtofillupthetimeIwentuponthehillsideandfellasleep,forthewalkhadtiredme.Iallbutslepttoolong,andhadtoruntothestationandcatchthetrainwithtwominutestospare.Thefeelofthehardthird-classcushionsandthesmellofstaletobaccocheeredmeupwonderfully.Atanyrate,IfeltnowthatIwasgettingtogripswithmyjob.