Still nothing appeared on that long white road.
Now and then a sheep wandered off the heather to stare at me. A
heron flopped down to a pool in the stream and started to fish,
taking no more notice of me than if I had been a milestone. On I
went, trundling my loads of stone, with the heavy step of the
professional. Soon I grew warm, and the dust on my face changed
into solid and abiding grit. I was already counting the hours till
evening should put a limit to Mr Turnbull's monotonous toil.
Suddenly a crisp voice spoke from the road, and looking up I
saw a little Ford two-seater, and a round-faced young man in a
bowler hat.
'Are you Alexander Turnbull?' he asked. 'I am the new County
Road Surveyor. You live at Blackhopefoot, and have charge of the
section from Laidlawbyres to the Riggs? Good! A fair bit of road,
Turnbull, and not badly engineered. A little soft about a mile off,
and the edges want cleaning. See you look after that. Good morning.
You'll know me the next time you see me.'
Clearly my get-up was good enough for the dreaded Surveyor. I
went on with my work, and as the morning grew towards noon I
was cheered by a little traffic. A baker's van breasted the hill, and
sold me a bag of ginger biscuits which I stowed in my trouser-
pockets against emergencies. Then a herd passed with sheep, and
disturbed me somewhat by asking loudly, 'What had become o' Specky?'
'In bed wi' the colic,' I replied, and the herd passed on .
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