“Good Lord, Dennis!” I exclaimed, “I’d no idea you ever noticed things so keenly. What do you think he is — a detective?”
“Either that or a criminal. They are the same type of mind. One is positive and the other negative, that’s all. We’ll turn back and test him as we pass him. Talk golf, or fishing, or something.”
So we commenced a half-hearted conversation on trout flies, and as we approached “the American” I was explaining the deadly nature of the Red Palmer after a spate and the advisability of including Greenwell’s Glory on the same cast. Unfortunately, as we passed our man there were three other people coming towards us, and he was gazing over the top of the carriage with the same dreaming look that had, according to Dennis, deceived me before. But we were hardly abreast of him when his stick shot up in front of us. His arm never moved at all; it was done with a quick jerk of the wrist.
“You’ve dropped a paper, sir,” he said to Dennis, to my utter astonishment, for I had seen no paper dropped. Dennis turned quickly, and picked up a letter which was lying on the platform behind him.
“I’m very much obliged, sir; thank you,” said Dennis, as he put the letter in his pocket.
“I never saw you drop that,” I exclaimed when we were safely out of earshot. “Did you?”
“There you are,” my friend cried triumphantly. “You were walking beside me and you didn’t spot it, and he was some distance away and he did; and you say he was half asleep.”
“I say, Den,” I exclaimed, laughing, “d’you think it’s going to be safe to travel on this train? I wonder where he’s going?”
Then we dismissed the man from our minds. The train was going in six minutes, and I joined the crowd round the rug and pillow barrow, and prepared to make myself comfortable. Leaving everything to the last minute, as most travellers do, we had a hurried stirrup-cup in view of the fact that I was about to “gang awa’,” and as the train glided out of the station Dennis turned to wire for my breakfast-basket at Crianlarich. The one thing that it is important to do when travelling on the West Highland Railway I had forgotten! We had not passed Potter’s Bar before I decided that it would be impossible to sleep, so I ferreted out the attendant and bribed him to put me into a first-class carriage. Better still, he showed me into a sleeper. I was dog-tired, and in ten minutes fell fast asleep. I awoke for a moment or two as the train snorted into a station and drew up. I dozed again for some time, and then the door of my sleeper opened and who should look in but “the American.”
“Say, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed apologetically. “My mistake.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Where are we now?” For the train was still standing.
“Edinburgh,” he answered. “Just leaving. Sorry to disturb you.”
I again assured him that there was no harm done, and he turned and left me, the tassels of his Jaeger dressing-gown trailing after him. Then I fell asleep again, and woke up as we left Whistlefield. I had finished my wretched ablutions — for an early morning wash on a train is always a wretched business — as we reached Crianlarich. I was not long in claiming my breakfast; and when the passengers in the refreshment-room had finished their coffee — which seems to be the time when the train is due to leave, and not vice-versâ, as might be expected — the guard was standing on the platform, flag in hand, on the point of blowing his whistle. Suddenly the head of the American shot out of the window of his carriage — no other expression describes it.
“Say, conductor,” he exclaimed angrily, “where’s my breakfast?”
Surely Dennis had been right about the nationality.
“What name might it be, sir?” asked the guard.
“Hilderman — J. G. Hilderman. Ordered by telegraph.”
“I’ll see, sir,” said the guard, dashing into the refreshment-room. It did not seem to matter when the train started; but, after a further heated argument, in which the official refused to wait while a couple of eggs were being fried, Mr. Hilderman was supplied with a pot of coffee, some cold ham, and dried toast, and we recommenced our belated journey. I reached Fort William and changed on to the Mallaig train, as did Mr. Hilderman, on whom, after the breakfast episode, I had begun to look with an affectionate and admiring regard. The man who can keep a train waiting in Great Britain while the guard gets him his breakfast must be very human after all. Most of the way on the beautiful journey through Lochaber I leaned with my head out of the window, drinking in the gorgeous air and admiring the luxurious scenery of the mountain side. But, in view of the hilly nature of the track and the quality of the coal employed, it is always a dangerous adventure on the West Highland Railway, and presently I found myself with a big cinder in my eye. I was trying to remove the cause of my discomfort, and at the same time swearing softly, I am afraid, when Hilderman came up.
“I guess I’m just the man you’re looking for,” he said. “Show me.”
In less time than it takes to tell the offending cinder was removed, and I was amazed at the delicacy and certainty of his touch. I thanked him profusely, and indeed I was really grateful to him. Naturally enough, we fell into conversation — the easy, broad conversation of two men who have never seen each other before and expect never to see each other again, but are quite willing to be friends in the meantime.
“Terrible news, this,” he said presently, pulling a copy of the Glasgow Herald from his pocket. “I suppose you got it at Fort William?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t leave the train. I wasn’t thinking of newspapers. What is it?”
“A state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from twelve o’clock last night.”
“Ah!” said I. “It has come, then.” And I was surprised that I had forgotten all about the war, which was actually the cause of my presence there. I noticed with some curiosity that Hilderman looked out of the window with a strangely tense air, his lips firmly pressed together, his eyes wide open and staring. He was certainly awake now. But in a moment he turned to me with a charming smile.
“You know, I’m an American,” he said. “But this hits me — hits me hard. There’s a calm and peaceful, friendly hospitality about this island of yours that I like — like a lot. My own country reminds me too much of my own struggles for existence. For nearly forty years I fought for breath in America, and, but that I like now and again to run over and have a look round, you can keep the place as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been about here now for a good many years — not just this part, for this is nearly new to me, but about the country — and I feel that this is my quarrel, and I should like to have a hand in it.”
“Perhaps America may join in yet,” I suggested.
“Not she,” he cried, with a laugh. “America! Not on your life. Why, she’s afraid of civil war. She don’t know which of her own citizens are her friends and which ain’t. She’s tied hand and foot. She can’t even turn round long enough to whip Mexico. Don’t you ever expect America to join in anything except family prayer, my boy. That’s safe. You know where you are, and it don’t matter if you don’t agree about the wording of a psalm. If an American was told off to shoot a German, he’d ten to one turn round and say: ‘Here, hold on a minute; that’s my uncle!’”
“You think all the Germans in the States prefer their fatherland to their adopted country, or are they most of them spies?”
“Spies?” said Hilderman, “I don’t believe in spies.