Mr. Cleg Kelly awoke early on the day upon which he was to make the bold adventure of getting to Netherby Junction without enriching the railway company by the amount of his fare. But his conscience was clean; he was going to work his passage. It is true that neither [248]the general manager nor yet the traffic inspector had been consulted in the matter. But for the sake of Cleg's friend (to be exact, Cleaver's boy's sweetheart's fellow-servant, cook at Bailie Holden's), Duncan Urquhart was willing (and he believed able) to engineer Cleg's passage to Netherby without fee or reward.
Duncan was friendly with the guard of his goods train, which is a thing not too common with those who have to run goods trains together, week in and week out. The shunting at night in particular is wearing to the temper, especially in the winter time, when it is mostly dark in an hour or two whenever your train happens to start.
"Can you stand there and turn a brake?" said Duncan to Cleg, setting him in a small compartment by himself; "screw her up whenever we are running downhill. Ye will ken when by the gurring and shaking."
Mr. Duncan Urquhart was a very different man during the day, to the gay and gallant evening caller who had won the easy-melted heart of the cook at Holden's—which a disappointed suitor once said bitterly was made of dripping. He was very grimy; he spoke but seldom, and then mostly in the highly imaginative and metaphorical language popular on the Greenock and South-Eastern. Duncan Urquhart, as has already been mentioned, was quite a first-class swearer, and had an originality not common among engineers, which he owed to his habit of translating literally from the Gaelic. Also, though he swore incessantly, he never defiled his mouth with profanity, but confined himself assiduously to personal abuse, which, if less sonorous, is infinitely more irritating to the swearee.
So hour after hour Cleg stood in the train and was hurled and shaken southwards towards Netherby. He [249]helped at the shunting, coupling, and uncoupling with the best. For, from his ancient St. Leonards experience, he could run the coal-waggons to their lies as well as a professional. And though his occupations had been varied and desultory, Cleg was a born worker. He always saw merely the bit of work before him, and he set his teeth into it (as he said picturesquely) till he had clawed his way through.
Thus it was that Cleg found himself at Netherby Junction one Saturday night at six o'clock. It was the first time he had ever been further than the confines of the Queen's Park. And his vision of the country came to him as it were in one day. He saw teams driving afield. He saw the mowers in the swathes of hay. He watched with keen delight the grass fall cleanly before the scythe, and the point of the blade stand out at each stroke six inches from under the fallen sweep of dewy grass.
"Netherby Junction! Guidnicht!" said Duncan Urquhart, briefly. He had an appointment to keep with the provost's cook, who was also partial to well-bearded men with blue pilot-cloth jackets. Duncan would not have been in such a hurry, but for the fact that it took him half an hour to clean himself. He knew that half an hour when you go a-courting, and when the other fellow may get there first, is of prime importance.
Now, as Cleg Kelly stepped out upon the cattle-landing bank, he caught a glimpse of the biggest man he had ever seen, walking slowly along the white dusty road which led out of the passenger station. He was swinging his arms wide of his sides, as very big and broad men always do.
Cleg sped after him at top speed and took a tour round him before he spoke. The big man paid no attention, walking with his eyes fixed on the ground.
[250]
"Are ye the man that pitched oot the drovers?" said Cleg at last, coming to anchor in front of the giant.
Muckle Alick stopped in the road, as much surprised as though the town clock had spoken to him. For Cleg put a smartness and fire in his question to which the boys about Netherby were strangers.
"Where come ye frae?" he said to Cleg.
"I come from Edinburgh to see Vara Kavannah," said Cleg. "Is she biding wi' you?"
"She was, till yestreen," said Alick.
"And where is she noo?" said Cleg, buckling up his trousers.
"She is gane to serve at Loch Spellanderie by the Water o' Ae!" said Alick.
"And how far micht that be?" asked Cleg, finishing his preparations.
"Three mile and a bittock up that road!" said Muckle Alick, pointing with his finger to a well-made dusty road which went in the direction of the hills.
"Guidnicht!" cried Cleg, shortly. And was off at racing pace.
Muckle Alick watched him out of sight.
"That cowes a'!" he said, "to think that I could yince rin like that to see a lass. But the deil's in the loon. He's surely braw an early begun!"
Then Muckle Alick went round and told his wife.
"It will be the laddie frae Enbra that got them the wark in the mill, and gied up his wood hut to the bairns to leeve in. What for did ye no bring him to see Hugh Boy and the bairn?"
"I dinna ken that he gied me the chance," said Alick. "He was aff like a shot to Loch Spellanderie. I wad gie a shilling to hear what Mistress McWalter will say to him when he gets there. I houp that it'll no make her [251]unkind to the lassie! If it does, I'll speak to her man. And at the warst she can aye come back to us. At a pinch we could be doing without her wage!"
"Aweel," said his wife, "the loon will be near there by this time."
And the loon was.
Cleg was just turning up over the hill road towards Loch Spellanderie, when he heard that most heartsome sound to the ear of a country boy—the clatter of the pasture bars when the kye are coming home. It is a sound thrilling with reminiscences of dewy eves, or heartsome lowsing times, of forenichts with the lasses, and of all that to a country lad makes life worth living.
But to Cleg the rattle of the bars meant none of these things. Two people were standing by the gate—a boy and a girl. Cleg thought he would ask them if this was the right road to Loch Spellanderie.
But as he came nearer he saw that the girl was Vara herself. She was in close and, apparently, very friendly talk with a stranger—a tall lad with a face like one of the white statues in the museum, at which Cleg had often peeped wonderingly on free days when it was cold or raining outside.
"Vara!" cried Cleg, leaping forward towards his friend.
"Cleg! What are you doing here?" said Vara Kavannah, holding out her hand.
But there was something in her manner that froze Cleg. He had come with a glowing heart. He had overcome difficulties. And now she did not seem much more glad to see him than she had been to talk with this young interloper at the gate of the field.
"This is Kit Kennedy," said Vara, with a feeling that she must by her tactfulness carry off an awkward situation.
"O it is, is it?" said Cleg, ungraciously.
[252]
Vara went on hastily to tell Cleg about the children—how well and how happy they were, how Gavin was twice the weight he had been, how Hugh Boy ran down the road each night to meet Muckle Alick, and how she was now able to keep herself, besides helping a little to support Hugh and Gavin also.
Cleg stood sulkily scraping the earth with the toe of his boot. Kit Kennedy left them together, and was going off with the cows towards the byre. He had seen a tall, gaunt woman, who was not to be trifled with, walking through the courtyard, and he knew it was time to take the kye in.
Vara stopped talking to Cleg somewhat quickly. For she also had seen Mistress McWalter. She walked away towards the farm. Cleg and Kit were left alone.
Quick as lightning Cleg thrust his arm before Kit Kennedy's face.
"Spit ower that!" he said.
Kit hesitated and turned away.
"I dinna want to fecht ye!" he said, for he knew what was meant.
"Ye are feared!" said Cleg, tauntingly.
Kit Kennedy executed the feat in hydraulics required of him.
"After kye time," said he, "at the back o' the barn."
Cleg nodded dourly.
"I'll learn ye to let my lass alane!" said the town boy.
"I dinna gie a button for your lass, or ony ither lass. Forbye there was nae ticket on her that I could see!" answered he of the country.
"Aweel," said Cleg; "then I'll warm ye for sayin' that ye wadna gie a button for her. I'm gaun to lick ye at ony rate."
"To fecht me, ye mean?" said Kit Kennedy, quietly.
[253]
Thus was gage of battle offered and accepted betwixt Cleg Kelly and Kit Kennedy.