CHAPTER XL
MY INTERVIEW WITH PITT
Of our voyage across the Channel there need be no more said than that it was dull to the very verge of monotony, for the wind, though favourable, was often in a faint where our poor sail shook idly at the mast. Two days later we were in London, and stopped at the Queen's Head above Craig's Court in Charing Cross.
And now I had to make the speediest possible arrangement for a meeting with those who could make the most immediate and profitable use of the tidings I was in a position to lay before them, by no means an easy matter to decide upon for a person who had as little knowledge of London as he had of the Cities of the Plain.
MacKellar—ever the impetuous Gael—was for nothing less than a personal approach to his Majesty.
“The man that is on the top of the hill will always be seeing furthest,” he said. “I have come in contact with the best in Europe on that under standing, but it calls for a kind of Hielan' tact that—that—”
“That you cannot credit to a poor Lowlander like myself,” said I, amused at his vanity.
“Oh, I'm meaning no offence, just no offence at all,” he responded quickly, and flushing at his faux pas. “You have as much talent of the kind as the best of us I'm not denying, and I have just the one advantage, that I was brought up in a language that has delicacies of address beyond the expression of the English, or the French that is, in some measure, like it.”