“To hear the music in the fresh morning was fine,” he said. “I was away early with the dogs when a’ was quiet and only the sheep were moving on the moor. Maybe ye’d hear a cock-grouse crow, and then the pipes began. Weel, I was a raw herd laddie and I thought, if I got rich, my piper would waken me with music like yon. Ye see, the march is famous; I’m thinking the Prince’s pipers played it on the road to Derby....”
He knocked out his pipe, smiled, and resumed:
“It’s lang syne and I’m no yet rich. To the moor where the sheep fed is a far cry, but when ye began yon march I saw the mist roll up the brae and I thought the grouse were calling. Weel, until the boss comes back I’ve got my piper, and I’ll lie until ye play for me the morn. In the meantime I must make the coffee and slice the breakfast pork.”
He went to his store, and Kit went to a bench in front of the shack. In the distance the prairie was blue; the sky was saffron and red. By the river bank dark trees cut the sunset, and fading reflections touched the stream. The camp was quiet but hammers rang along the bridge, and after a time a pillar of fire leaped up. For a few moments the flame was smoky, and then the light got clear and Kit knew somebody adjusted the blast-lamp’s valves.
Braced columns and steel lattice shone like silver, and on the high platforms workmen’s figures, in black silhouette, cut the strong illumination. Grass and leaves sparkled as if touched by frost, and a glittering flood broke against the piers. The sunset’s reflections vanished, and where the bright beam did not reach all was dark.
The hammers beat faster and small pale flames marked the rivet forges. Kit saw red specks move along the bridge and sparks fly, and he ruminated humorously. His fiddle had earned his supper, and for two or three days he could reckon on his food and a bunk-house bed; but he was not ambitious to be a cook’s musician. His job was at the bridge. Well, there was no use in brooding, and his first post in Canada was rather a joke. By and by he returned to the bunk-house and was soon asleep.
Not long after daybreak he got down from his bunk and stole across the floor. The bridge gang slept noisily, and to waken the men before the usual time might be rash. To light the stove was perhaps not a minstrel’s job, but he had undertaken to do so, and since it was his first experiment, he had got up early.
The stove was in a lean-to shed and did not bother Kit. The poplar billets snapped behind the bars and the iron got red. He liked the smell of the wood, the morning was fresh, and the warmth was soothing. Pulling out his watch, he saw he did not waken the cook for some time, and he made coffee and found a slab of pie. When he had drained the can and the pie was gone, he lighted his pipe. After all, to help the cook had some advantages.
At length, he got up and tuned his fiddle by the track. Mist floated about the river and dew sparkled on the grass. All was fresh and bracing, and Kit’s mood was buoyant. He put the fiddle to his shoulder and a joyous reveille roused the sleeping gangs. Then for a few moments Kit stopped. Sometimes at camps he had known reveille was not joyous, and he pictured tight-mouthed men strapping up packs and ground-sheets and taking the muddy road. The road faced the rising sun, but it had carried Kit’s pals West.
Well, it was done with and one must look ahead. Kit was the cook’s piper, and he pulled the bow across the lower strings. He thought the pipes began on under tones; and then he leaped an octave to the ranting tune. The music was not great music, but it fired the blood and moved one’s feet. Kit was not playing for critics; he called muscular men to work. Perhaps the chords were like the pipes, but no pipes could give the clear ringing notes one got from the high strings. If the cook had imagination, he would hear the broadswords rattle and the clansmen’s feet. The Highlanders marched for Derby to a tune like that.