He raised the cap of my flask in solemn salutation. “Your very good health.” Then he smacked his lips, and had several cupfuls of water from the spring.
“You will haf come from Achranich way, maybe?” he said in his soft sing-song, having at last found his breath.
“Just so. Fine weather for the birds, if there was anybody to shoot them.”
“Ah, no. There will be few shots fired today, for there are no gentlemen left in Morvern. But I wass asking you, if you come from Achranich, if you haf seen anybody on the road.”
From his pocket he extricated a brown envelope and a bulky telegraph form. “Will you read it, sir, for I haf forgot my spectacles?”
It contained a description of one Brand, a South African and a suspected character, whom the police were warned to stop and return to Oban. The description wasn’t bad, but it lacked any one good distinctive detail. Clearly the policeman took me for an innocent pedestrian, probably the guest of some moorland shooting-box, with my brown face and rough tweeds and hobnailed shoes.
I frowned and puzzled a little. “I did see a fellow about three miles back on the hillside. There’s a public-house just where the burn comes in, and I think he was making for it. Maybe that was your man. This wire says ‘South African’; and now I remember the fellow had the look of a colonial.”
The policeman sighed. “No doubt it will be the man. Perhaps he will haf a pistol and will shoot.”
“Not him,” I laughed. “He looked a mangy sort of chap, and he’ll be scared out of his senses at the sight of you. But take my advice and get somebody with you before you tackle him. You’re always the better of a witness.”
“That is so,” he said, brightening. “Ach, these are the bad times! in old days there wass nothing to do but watch the doors at the flower-shows and keep the yachts from poaching the sea-trout. But now it is spies, spies, and ‘Donald, get out of your bed, and go off twenty mile to find a German.’ I wass wishing the war wass by, and the Germans all dead.”