Part 25 (1/2)
”Seventy-seven!”
”Je suis la!” came her voice from the stairs.
”It's all right,” he said, ”it's one of our men. No use sittin' up if you're sleepy.” He listened but did not hear Miss Erith stir.
”Better return to bed,” he said again, and guided Sixty-seven into the room on the left.
For a few moments he prowled around; a gla.s.s tinkled against a decanter. When he returned to the shadow-shape seated motionless by the cas.e.m.e.nt window he carried only one gla.s.s.
”Don't you?” inquired Sixty-seven. ”And you a Scot!”
”I'm a Yankee; and I'm through.”
”With the stuff?”
”Absolutely.”
”Oh, very well. But a Yankee laird--tiens c'est a.s.sez drole!” He smacked his lips over the smoky draught, set the half-empty gla.s.s on the deep sill. Then he began breezily:
”Well, Seventy-six, what's all this I hear about your misfortunes?”
”What do you hear?” inquired McKay guilelessly.
The other man laughed.
”I hear that you and Seventy-seven have entered the Service; that you are detailed to Switzerland and for a certain object unknown to myself; that your transport was torpedoed a week ago off the Head of Strathlone, that you wired London from this house of yours called Isla, and that you and Seventy-seven went to London last week to replenish the wardrobe you had lost.”
”Is that all you heard?”
”It is.”
”Well, what more do you wish to hear?”
”I want to know whether anything has happened to worry you. And I'll tell you why. There was a Hun caught near Banff! Can you beat it?
The beggar wore kilts!--and the McKay tartan--and, by jinks, if his gillie wasn't rigged in shepherd's plaid!--and him with his Yankee pa.s.sport and his gillie with a bag of ready-made rods. Yellow trout, is it? Sea-trout, is it! Ho, me bucko, says I when I lamped what he did with his first trout o' the burn this side the park--by G.o.dfrey!
thinks I to myself, you're no white man at all!--you're Boche. And it was so, McKay.”
”Seventy-six,” corrected McKay gently.
”That's better. It should become a habit.”
”Excuse me, Seventy-six; I'm Scotch-Irish way back. You're straight Scotch--somewhere back. We Yankees don't use rods and flies and net and gaff as these Scotch people use 'em. But we're white, Seventy-six, and we use 'em RIGHT in our own fas.h.i.+on.” He moistened his throat, shoved aside the gla.s.s:
”But this kilted Boche! Oh, la-la! What he did with his rod and flies and his fish and himself! AND his gillie! Sure YOU'RE not white at all, thinks I. And at that I go after them.”
”You got them?”
”Certainly--at the inn--gobbling a trout, blaue gesotten--having gone into the kitchen to show a decent Scotch la.s.sie how to concoct the Hunnish dish. I nailed them then and there--took the chance that the swine weren't right. And won out.”
”Good! But what has it to do with me?” asked McKay.