The Eagle Cliff

The youth burst into a laugh at this, and the old fisherman’s mouth expanded into a broad grin, which betrayed the fact that age had failed to damage his teeth, though it had played some havoc with his legs.

“These are what I style Highland boots,” said the old man, pointing to the muddy legs.

“Indeed!” returned Barret. “Well, you see I have put them on at once, for I have only arrived a few hours since. My name is Barret. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr MacRummle?”

“You have that pleasure, Mr Barret; and now, if you will do me the kindness to carry my rod and basket, I will lead you back to the dog-cart by a path which will not necessitate an additional pair of native boots! I would not have hailed you, but having tumbled into the river, as you see, I thought it would be more prudent to get driven home as quickly as possible.”

“You have a good basket of fish, I see, or rather, feel,” remarked Barret, as he followed the old man, who walked rather slowly, for his physical strength was not equal to his spirits.

“Ay, it is not so bad; but I lost the best one. Fishers always do, you know! He was a grilse, a six-pounder at the least, if he was an ounce, for I had him within an inch of my gaff when I overbalanced myself, and shot into the stream head foremost with such force, that I verily believe I drove him to the very bottom of the pool. Strange to say the rod was not broken; but when I scrambled ashore, I found that the grilse was gone!”

“How unfortunate! You were not hurt, I hope?”

“Not in the least. There was plenty of depth for a dive; besides, I’m used to it.”

It became quite evident to John Barret that his new friend was “used to” a good many more things besides tumbling into the river, for as they went slowly along the winding footpath that led them through the peat-hags, MacRummle tripped over a variety of stumps, roots, and other excrescences which presented themselves in the track, and which on several occasions brought him to the ground. The old gentleman, however, had a fine facility in falling. Being slow in all his movements, he usually subsided rather than fell; a result, perhaps, of laziness as well as of unwillingness to struggle against fate. His frequent staggerings, also, on the verge of dark peat holes, caused his companion many a shock of alarm and many a start forward to prevent a catastrophe, before they gained the high road. They reached it at last, however, rather breathless, but safe.

MacRummle’s speech, like his movements, was slow. His personal courage, considering the dangers he constantly and voluntarily encountered, was great.

“You’ve been in again, Mac, I see,” exclaimed the laird heartily, extending his hand to his old friend with the view of hauling him up on the seat beside him. “Mind the step. Now then!”

“Yes, I’ve been in, but the weather is warm! Stop, stop! Don’t pull quite so hard, Allan; mind my rheumatic shoulder. Give a shove behind, Mr Barret—gently—there. Thankee.”

The old man sat down with something of a crash beside his friend. Barret handed him his rod, put the basket under his feet, and sprang up on the seat behind.

Returning at a swift pace by the road they had come, they soon reached Kinlossie, where the laird drove into the back yard, so as to deliver the still dripping MacRummle at the back door, and thus prevent his leaving a moist track from the front hall to his bedroom. Having got rid of him, and given the dog-cart in charge to the groom, Mr Gordon led his young friend round to the front of the house.

“I see your friends have already arrived,” said the laird, pointing to the waggonette which stood in the yard. “No doubt we shall find them about somewhere.”

They turned the corner of the mansion as he spoke, and certainly did come on Barret’s friends, in circumstances, however, which seemed quite unaccountable at first sight, for there, in front of the open door, were not only Bob Mabberly, Giles Jackman, Skipper McPherson, James McGregor, Pat Quin, and Robin Tips, but also Mrs Gordon, the two boy Gordons—named respectively, Eddie and Junkie—Duncan, the butler, and little Flora, with a black wooden doll in her arms, all standing in more or less awkward attitudes, motionless and staring straight before them as if petrified with surprise or some kindred feeling.

Barret looked at his host with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.

“Hush!” said the laird, softly, holding up a finger of caution. “My boy Archie is behind that laurel bush. He’s photographing them!”

“That’ll do,” in a loud voice from Archie, disenchanted the party; and while the operator rushed off to his “dark closet,” the laird hurried forward to be introduced to the new arrivals, and give them hospitable greeting.

That evening the host and his wife entertained their guests to a genuine Highland feast in the trophied hall, and at a somewhat later hour Duncan, the butler, and Elsie, the cook, assisted by Roderick, the groom, and Mary, the housemaid, held their share of high revelry in the kitchen, with Quin, Tips, and “Shames” McGregor.

“You have come to the right place for sport, gentlemen,” said the laird, as he carved with vigour at a splendid haunch of venison. “In their seasons we have deer and grouse on the hills; rabbits, hares, partridges, and pheasants on the low grounds. What’ll you have, Mr Mabberly? My dear, what have you got there?”

“Pigeon pie,” answered Mrs Gordon.

“Mac, that will suit your taste, I know,” cried the host with a laugh.

“Yes, it will,” slowly returned MacRummle, whose ruddy face and smooth bald head seemed to glow with satisfaction now that he had got into dry garments. “Yes, I’m almost as fond of pie as my old friend Robinson used to be. He was so fond of it that, strange though it may seem to you, gentlemen, he had a curious predilection for pie-bald horses.”

“Come, now, Mac, don’t begin upon your friend Robinson till after dinner.”

“Has Archie’s photography turned out well?” asked Mabberly at this point. “I do a little in that way myself, and am interested as to the result of his efforts to-day.”

“We cannot know that before to-morrow, I fear,” replied Mrs Gordon.

“Did I hear you ask about Archie’s work, Mabberly?” said the laird, interrupting. “Oh! it’ll turn out well, I have no doubt. He does everything well. In fact, all the boys are smartish fellows; a little self-willed and noisy, perhaps, like all boys, but—”

A tremendous crash in the room above, which was the nursery, caused the laird to drop his knife and fork and quickly leave the room, with a look of anxiety, for he was a tender-hearted, excitable man; while his quiet and delicate-looking wife sat still, with a look of serenity not unmingled with humour.

“Something overturned, I suppose,” she remarked.

In a few minutes her husband returned with a bland smile.

“Yes,” he said, resuming his knife and fork; “it was Junkie, as usual, fighting with Flo for the black doll. No mischief would have followed, I daresay, but Archie and Eddie joined in the scrimmage, and between them they managed to upset the table. I found them wallowing in a sea of porridge and milk—that was all!”

Chapter Five

Plans, Prospects, and a Great Fight

There is something very enjoyable in awaking in a strange bedroom with a feeling of physical strength and abounding health about one, with a glorious, early sunbeam irradiating the room—especially if it does not shine upon one’s face—with a window opposite, through which you can see a mountain rising through the morning mists, until its summit appears to claim kindred with the skies, and with the consciousness that work is over for a time, and recreation is the order of the day.

Some such thoughts and feelings caused John Barret to smile as he lay flat on his back, the morning after his arrival, with his hands under his head, surveying the low-roofed but cosy apartment which had been allotted to him in the mansion of Kinlossie. But the smile gave place to a grave, earnest expression as his eyes fell upon a framed card, on which was printed, in scarlet and blue and gold, “The earth is the Lords and the fulness thereof.”

“So it is,” thought the youth; “and my power to enjoy it comes from the Lord—my health, my strength, myself. Yet how seldom do I thank Him for the mere fact of a happy existence. God forgive me!”

Although Barret thus condemned himself, we would not have it supposed that he had been a careless unbeliever. His temperament was grave (not by any means gloomy) by nature, and a Christian mother’s love and teaching had, before her early death, deepened his religious impressions.

He was beginning to wonder whether it was Mrs Gordon who had hung the text there, and whether it had been executed by Milly Moss, when the “get up” gong sent forth a sonorous peal, causing him to bound out of bed. The act brought before his eyes another bed—a small one—in a corner of the room reminding him of what he had forgotten, that, the house being full to overflow by the recent accession of visitors, little Joseph, better known as Junkie, shared the room with him.

Junkie was at the moment sleeping soundly, after the manner of the hedgehog—that is, curled up in the form of a ball. It was plain that neither dressing gongs nor breakfast-bells had any effect upon him, for he lay still in motionless slumber.

“Hallo! Junkie, did you hear the gong?” said Barret, pushing the boy gently.

But Junkie answered not, and he had to push him three or four times gently, and twice roughly, before he could awaken the youngster. Uncoiling himself and turning on the other side, Junkie heaved a deep sigh, and murmured,—“Leave m’ ’lone.”

“Junkie! Junkie! you’ll be late for breakfast,” shouted Barret in his ear.

“Don’—wan’—any—br’kf’st,” murmured the boy. “Leave m’ ’lone, I say—or’ll wallop you!”

A laugh from Barret, and a still severer shake, roused the boy so far as to make him sit up and stare about him with almost supernatural solemnity. Then he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and smiled faintly.

“Oh! it’s you, is it?” he said. “I thought it was Eddie, and—”

Another yawn checked his utterance. Then he suddenly jumped up, and began to haul on his clothes with surprising rapidity. It was evident that Junkie had a will of his own, and was accustomed to exert it on all occasions. He continued to dress, wash himself, brush his hair and his teeth, without speaking, and with such vigour that he soon distanced his companion in the race. True, he did not do everything thoroughly. He did not render his little hands immaculately clean. He did not remember that the secret places behind his ears required to be particularly attended to, and, in brushing operations, he totally forgot that he was possessed of back-hair. Indeed, it is just possible that he disbelieved that fact, for he neglected it entirely, insomuch that when he had completed the operation to his own entire satisfaction, several stiff and independent locks pointed straight to the sky, and two or three to the horizon.

“That’s a pretty text on the wall, Junkie,” observed Barret, while the youngster was busy with the comb.

“Yes, it’s pretty.”

Barret wished to draw the boy out, but, like a tough piece of india-rubber, he refused to be drawn out.