The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John

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СКАЧАТЬ of his neighbours to incline to the former, and he passed for something of an oracle among his fellows. The blacksmith, who was the critic of the neighbourhood, summed up his character in a few words. “Him,” said he, in a tone of mingled dislike and admiration, “him! He would sweer white was black the morn, and dod! he would prove it tae.”

      It so happened in the early summer, when the land was green and the trout plashed in the river, that Her Majesty’s Government saw fit to appeal to an intelligent country. Among a people whose politics fight hard with their religion for a monopoly of their interests, feeling ran high and brotherly kindness departed. Houses were divided against themselves. Men formerly of no consideration found themselves suddenly important, and discovered that their intellects and conscience, which they had hitherto valued at little, were things of serious interest to their betters. The lurid light of publicity was shed upon the lives of the rival candidates; men formerly accounted worthy and respectable were proved no better than white sepulchres; and each man was filled with a morbid concern for his fellow’s character and beliefs.

      The farmer of Clachlands called a meeting of his labourers in the great dusty barn, which had been the scene of many similar gatherings. His speech on the occasion was vigorous and to the point. “Ye are a’ my men,” he said, “an’ I ‘ll see that ye vote richt. Ye ‘re uneddicated folk, and ken naething aboot the matter, sae ye just tak’ my word for’t, that the Tories are in the richt and vote accordingly. I’ve been a guid maister to ye, and it’s shurely better to pleesure me, than a wheen leein’ scoondrels whae tramp the country wi’ leather bags and printit trash.”

      Then arose from the back the ploughman, strong in his convictions. “Listen to me, you men,” says he; “just vote as ye think best. The maister’s a guid maister, as he says, but he’s nocht to dae wi’ your votin’. It’s what they ca’ inteemedation to interfere wi’ onybody in this matter. So mind that, an’ vote for the workin’-man an’ his richts.”

      Then ensued a war of violent words. “Is this a meetin’ in my barn, or a pennywaddin?”

      “Ca’t what ye please. I canna let ye mislead the men.”

      “Whae talks about misleadin’? Is’t misleadin’ to lead them richt?”

      “The question,” said the ploughman, solemnly, “is what you ca’ richt.”

      “William Laverhope, if ye werena a guid plooman, ye wad gang post-haste oot o’ here the morn.”

      “I care na what ye say. I ‘ll stand up for the richts o’ thae men.”

      “Men!”—this with deep scorn. “I could mak’ better men than thae wi’ a stick oot o’ the plantin’.”

      “Ay, ye say that noo, an’ the morn ye ‘ll be ca’in’ ilka yin o’ them Mister, a’ for their votes.”

      The farmer left in dignified disgust, vanquished but still dangerous; the ploughman in triumph mingled with despair. For he knew that his fellow- labourers cared not a whit for politics, but would follow to the letter their master’s bidding.

      The next morning rose clear and fine. There had been a great rain for the past few days, and the burns were coming down broad and surly. The Clachlands Water was chafing by bank and bridge and threatening to enter the hay-field, and every little ditch and sheep-drain was carrying its tribute of peaty water to the greater flood. The farmer of Clachlands, as he looked over the landscape from the doorstep of his dwelling, marked the state of the weather and pondered over it.

      He was not in a pleasant frame of mind that morning. He had been crossed by a ploughman, his servant. He liked the man, and so the obvious way of dealing with him—by making things uncomfortable or turning him off—was shut against him. But he burned to get the upper hand of him, and discomfit once for all one who had dared to question his wisdom and good sense. If only he could get him to vote on the other side—but that was out of the question. If only he could keep him from voting—that was possible but unlikely. He might forcibly detain him, in which case he would lay himself open to the penalties of the law, and be nothing the gainer. For the victory which he desired was a moral one, not a triumph of force. He would like to circumvent him by cleverness, to score against him fairly and honourably on his own ground. But the thing was hard, and, as it seemed to him at the moment, impossible.

      Suddenly, as he looked over the morning landscape, a thought struck him and made him slap his legs and chuckle hugely. He walked quickly up and down the gravelled walk. “Losh, it’s guid. I’ll dae’t. I’ll dae’t, if the weather juist hauds.”

      His unseemly mirth was checked by the approach of some one who found the farmer engaged in the minute examination of gooseberry leaves. “I’m concerned aboot thae busses,” he was saying; “they’ve been ill lookit to, an’ we ‘ll no hae half a crop.” And he went off, still smiling, and spent a restless forenoon in the Gledsmuir market.

      In the evening he met the ploughman, as he returned from the turnip-singling, with his hoe on his shoulder. The two men looked at one another with the air of those who know that all is not well between them. Then the farmer spoke with much humility.

      “I maybe spoke rayther severe yestreen,” he said. “I hope I didna hurt your feelings.”

      “Na, na! No me!” said the ploughman, airily.

      “Because I’ve been thinking ower the matter, an’ I admit that a man has a richt to his ain thochts. A’body should hae principles an’ stick to them,” said the farmer, with the manner of one making a recondite quotation.

      “Ay,” he went on, “I respect ye, William, for your consistency. Ye ‘re an example to us a’.”

      The other shuffled and looked unhappy. He and his master were on the best of terms, but these unnecessary compliments were not usual in their intercourse. He began to suspect, and the farmer, who saw his mistake, hastened to change the subject.

      “Graund weather for the fishin’,” said he.

      “Oh, is it no?” said the other, roused to excited interest by this home topic. “I tell ye by the morn they ‘ll be takin’ as they’ve never ta’en this ‘ear. Doon in the big pool in the Clachlands Water, at the turn o’ the turnip-field, there are twae or three pounders, and aiblins yin o’ twae pund. I saw them mysel’ when the water was low. It’s ower big the noo, but when it gangs doon the morn, and gets the colour o’ porter, I ‘se warrant I could whup them oot o’ there wi’ the flee.”

      “D’ ye say sae?” said the farmer, sweetly. “Weel, it’s a lang time since I tried the fishin’, but I yince was keen on’t. Come in bye, William; I’ve something ye micht like to see.”

      From a corner he produced a rod, and handed it to the other. It was a very fine rod indeed, one which the owner had gained in a fishing competition many years before, and treasured accordingly. The ploughman examined it long and critically. Then he gave his verdict. “It’s the brawest rod I ever saw, wi’ a fine hickory butt, an’ guid greenhert tap and middle. It wad cast the sma’est flee, and haud the biggest troot.”

      “Weel,” said the farmer, genially smiling, “ye have a half-holiday the morn when ye gang to the poll. There’ll be plenty o’ time in the evening to try a cast wi’ ‘t. I ‘ll lend it ye for the day.”

      The man’s face brightened. “I wad tak’ it verra kindly,” he said, “if ye wad. My ain yin is no muckle worth, and, as ye say, I ‘ll hae time for a cast the morn’s СКАЧАТЬ