Mr Turnbull himself opened to me--sober and something more
than sober. He was primly dressed in an ancient but well-tended
suit of black; he had been shaved not later than the night before; he
wore a linen collar; and in his left hand he carried a pocket Bible.
At first he did not recognize me.
'Whae are ye that comes stravaigin' here on the Sabbath mornin'?'
he asked.
I had lost all count of the days. So the Sabbath was the reason
for this strange decorum.
My head was swimming so wildly that I could not frame a
coherent answer. But he recognized me, and he saw that I was ill.
'Hae ye got my specs?' he asked.
I fetched them out of my trouser pocket and gave him them.
'Ye'll hae come for your jaicket and westcoat,' he said. 'Come in-
bye. Losh, man, ye're terrible dune i' the legs. Haud up till I get ye
to a chair.'
I perceived I was in for a bout of malaria. I had a good deal of
fever in my bones, and the wet night had brought it out, while my
shoulder and the effects of the fumes combined to make me feel
pretty bad. Before I knew, Mr Turnbull was helping me off with
my clothes, and putting me to bed in one of the two cupboards that
lined the kitchen walls.
He was a true friend in need, that old roadman. His wife was
dead years ago, and since his daughter's marriage he lived alone.
For the better part of ten days he did all the rough nursing I
needed.
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