“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the right nor left.”
“And that’s queerer yet,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind, Davie, that we should be stirring.
But where to?—deil hae’t!
This is like old days fairly,” cries he.
“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “that now we have money in our pockets.”
“And another big differ, Mr. Balfour,” says he, “that now we have dogs at our tail.
They’re on the scent; they’re in full cry, David. It’s a bad business and be damned to it.” And he sat thinking hard with a look of his that I knew well.
“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the goodwife returned, “have ye a back road out of this change house?”
She told him there was and where it led to.
“Then, sir,” says he to me, “I think that will be the shortest road for us.
And here’s good-bye to ye, my braw woman; and I’ll no forget thon of the cinnamon water.”
We went out by way of the woman’s kale yard, and up a lane among fields.
Alan looked sharply to all sides, and seeing we were in a little hollow place of the country, out of view of men, sat down.
“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he. “But first of all, a bit lesson to ye.
Suppose that I had been like you, what would yon old wife have minded of the pair of us!
Just that we had gone out by the back gate.
And what does she mind now?
A fine, canty, friendly, cracky man, that suffered with the stomach, poor body! and was real ta’en up about the goodbrother.
O man, David, try and learn to have some kind of intelligence!”
“I’ll try, Alan,” said I.
“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast or slow?”
“Betwixt and between,” said I.
“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked.
“Never a sign of it,” said I.
“Nhm!” said Alan, “it looks queer.
We saw nothing of them this morning on the Whins; he’s passed us by, he doesnae seem to be looking, and yet here he is on our road!
Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion.
I think it’s no you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and I think they ken fine where they’re gaun.”
“They ken?” I asked.
“I think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him or his mate wha kent some part of the affair—or else Charlie’s clerk callant, which would be a pity too,” says Alan; “and if you askit me for just my inward private conviction, I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane sands.”
“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right there’ll be folk there and to spare.
It’ll be small service to crack heads.”
“It would aye be a satisfaction though,” says Alan. “But bide a bit; bide a bit; I’m thinking—and thanks to this bonny westland wind, I believe I’ve still a chance of it.
It’s this way, Davie.
I’m no trysted with this man Scougal till the gloaming comes. _But_,” says he,
“_if I can get a bit of a wind out of the west I’ll be there long or that_,” he says, “_and lie-to for ye behind the Isle of Fidra_.
Now if your gentry kens the place, they ken the time forbye.
Do ye see me coming, Davie?
Thanks to Johnnie Cope and other red-coat gomerals, I should ken this country like the back of my hand; and if ye’re ready for another bit run with Alan Breck, we’ll can cast back inshore, and come to the seaside again by Dirleton.
If the ship’s there, we’ll try and get on board of her.
If she’s no there, I’ll just have to get back to my weary haystack.
But either way of it, I think we will leave your gentry whistling on their thumbs.”
“I believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have on with ye, Alan!”
CHAPTER XIII—GILLANE SANDS
I did not profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done by his marchings under General Cope; for I can scarce tell what way we went.
It is my excuse that we travelled exceeding fast.
Some part we ran, some trotted, and the rest walked at a vengeance of a pace.
Twice, while we were at top speed, we ran against country-folk; but though we plumped into the first from round a corner, Alan was as ready as a loaded musket.
“Has ye seen my horse?” he gasped.
“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied the countryman.