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.'
He swung his heels up on the seat, and burrowed a frowsy head
into the cushions.
'And that's a' I get,' he moaned. 'A heid better than hell fire, and
twae een lookin' different ways for the Sabbath.
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