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- Джон Джон Бакен
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- Стр. 15/83
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All
the
slackness
of
the
past
months
was
slipping
from
my
bones
,
and
I
stepped
out
like
a
four-year-old
.
By-and-by
I
came
to
a
swell
of
moorland
which
dipped
to
the
vale
of
a
little
river
,
and
a
mile
away
in
the
heather
I
saw
the
smoke
of
a
train
.
The
station
,
when
I
reached
it
,
proved
to
be
ideal
for
my
purpose
.
The
moor
surged
up
around
it
and
left
room
only
for
the
single
line
,
the
slender
siding
,
a
waiting-room
,
an
office
,
the
station-master
's
cottage
,
and
a
tiny
yard
of
gooseberries
and
sweet-william
.
There
seemed
no
road
to
it
from
anywhere
,
and
to
increase
the
desolation
the
waves
of
a
tarn
lapped
on
their
grey
granite
beach
half
a
mile
away
.
I
waited
in
the
deep
heather
till
I
saw
the
smoke
of
an
east-going
train
on
the
horizon
.
Then
I
approached
the
tiny
booking-office
and
took
a
ticket
for
Dumfries
.
The
only
occupants
of
the
carriage
were
an
old
shepherd
and
his
dog
--
a
wall-eyed
brute
that
I
mistrusted
.
The
man
was
asleep
,
and
on
the
cushions
beside
him
was
that
morning
's
Scotsman
.
Eagerly
I
seized
on
it
,
for
I
fancied
it
would
tell
me
something
.
There
were
two
columns
about
the
Portland
Place
Murder
,
as
it
was
called
.
My
man
Paddock
had
given
the
alarm
and
had
the
milkman
arrested
.
Poor
devil
,
it
looked
as
if
the
latter
had
earned
his
sovereign
hardly
;
but
for
me
he
had
been
cheap
at
the
price
,
for
he
seemed
to
have
occupied
the
police
for
the
better
part
of
the
day
.
In
the
latest
news
I
found
a
further
instalment
of
the
story
.
The
milkman
had
been
released
,
I
read
,
and
the
true
criminal
,
about
whose
identity
the
police
were
reticent
,
was
believed
to
have
got
away
from
London
by
one
of
the
northern
lines
.
There
was
a
short
note
about
me
as
the
owner
of
the
flat
.
I
guessed
the
police
had
stuck
that
in
,
as
a
clumsy
contrivance
to
persuade
me
that
I
was
unsuspected
.
There
was
nothing
else
in
the
paper
,
nothing
about
foreign
politics
or
Karolides
,
or
the
things
that
had
interested
Scudder
.
I
laid
it
down
,
and
found
that
we
were
approaching
the
station
at
which
I
had
got
out
yesterday
.
The
potato-digging
station-master
had
been
gingered
up
into
some
activity
,
for
the
west-going
train
was
waiting
to
let
us
pass
,
and
from
it
had
descended
three
men
who
were
asking
him
questions
.
I
supposed
that
they
were
the
local
police
,
who
had
been
stirred
up
by
Scotland
Yard
,
and
had
traced
me
as
far
as
this
one-horse
siding
.
Sitting
well
back
in
the
shadow
I
watched
them
carefully
.
One
of
them
had
a
book
,
and
took
down
notes
.
The
old
potato-digger
seemed
to
have
turned
peevish
,
but
the
child
who
had
collected
my
ticket
was
talking
volubly
.
All
the
party
looked
out
across
the
moor
where
the
white
road
departed
.
I
hoped
they
were
going
to
take
up
my
tracks
there
.
As
we
moved
away
from
that
station
my
companion
woke
up
.
He
fixed
me
with
a
wandering
glance
,
kicked
his
dog
viciously
,
and
inquired
where
he
was
.
Clearly
he
was
very
drunk
.
"
That
's
what
comes
o
'
bein
'
a
teetotaller
,
"
he
observed
in
bitter
regret
.
I
expressed
my
surprise
that
in
him
I
should
have
met
a
blue-ribbon
stalwart
.
"
Ay
,
but
I
'm
a
strong
teetotaller
,
"
he
said
pugnaciously
.
"
I
took
the
pledge
last
Martinmas
,
and
I
havena
touched
a
drop
o
'
whisky
sinsyne
.
Not
even
at
Hogmanay
,
though
I
was
sair
temptit
.
"
