But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled to himself. “That was pretty neat. They’ll take some time to get the kist open, for I dropped the key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael. That gives me a fair start. If I hadn’t thought of that, they’d have found some way to grip me and ripe me long before I got to the Bank.” He shuddered as he thought of the dangers he had escaped. “As it is, they’re off the track for half an hour at least, while they’re rummaging among Auntie Phemie’s scones.” At the thought he laughed heartily, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a standstill by rapping on the front window, he left it with a temper apparently restored. Obviously he had no grudge against the driver, who to his immense surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.
Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have been seen entering the head office of the Strathclyde Bank and inquiring for the manager. There was no hesitation about him now, for his foot was on his native heath. The chief cashier received him with deference in spite of his unorthodox garb, for he was not the least honoured of the bank’s customers. As it chanced he had been talking about him that very morning to a gentleman from London. “The strength of this city,” he had said, tapping his eyeglasses on his knuckles, “does not lie in its dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two homely folk who make no parade of wealth. Men like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half a million.” And the Londoner had cordially assented.
So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.
“I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. A little country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor little souls.”
“Maybe,” said Dickson, with a vivid recollection of Dougal as he had last seen him. Somehow he did not think that peace was likely to be the portion of that devoted band. “But I’ve not come here to speak about that.”
He took off his waterproof; then his coat and waistcoat; and showed himself a strange figure with sundry bulges about the middle. The manager’s eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences were revealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt, and fitting into the hollow between ribs and hip. With some difficulty he slit the bags and extracted three hide-bound packages.
“See here, Mackintosh,” he said solemnly. “I hand you over these parcels, and you’re to put them in the innermost corner of your strong room. You needn’t open them. Just put them away as they are, and write me a receipt for them. Write it now.”
Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.
“What’ll I call them?” he asked.
“Just the three leather parcels handed to you by Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date.”
Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his client.
“Now,” said Dickson, “you’ll put that receipt in the strong box where you keep my securities and you’ll give it up to nobody but me in person and you’ll surrender the parcels only on presentation of the receipt. D’you understand?”
“Perfectly. May I ask any questions?”
“You’d better not if you don’t want to hear lees.’
“What’s in the packages?” Mr. Mackintosh weighed them in his hand.
“That’s asking,” said Dickson. “But I’ll tell ye this much. It’s jools.”
“Your own?”
“No, but I’m their trustee.”
“Valuable?”
“I was hearing they were worth more than a million pounds.”
“God bless my soul,” said the startled manager. “I don’t like this kind of business, McCunn.”
“No more do I. But you’ll do it to oblige an old friend and a good customer. If you don’t know much about the packages you know all about me. Now, mind, I trust you.”
Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. “Did you maybe steal them?”
Dickson grinned. “Just what I did. And that being so, I want you to let me out by the back door.”
When he found himself in the street he felt the huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit from the dentist’s chair. Remembering that here would be no midday dinner for him at home, his first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He had, so far as he could see, surmounted all his troubles, his one regret being that he had lost his pack, which contained among other things his Izaak Walton and his safety razor. He bought another razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric tram car en route for home.
Very contented with himself he felt as the car swung across the Clyde bridge. He had done well—but of that he did not want to think, for the whole beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that memory, to be resurrected perhaps on a later day when the unpleasantness had been forgotten. Heritage had his address, and knew where to come when it was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers, they must have ceased to suspect him, when they discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack and Mrs. Morran’s box. Home for him, and a luxurious tea by his own fireside; and then an evening with his books, for Heritage’s nonsense had stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into his old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow he would go for a jaunt somewhere—perhaps down the Clyde, or to the South of England, which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled country. No more lonely inns and deserted villages for him; henceforth he would make certain of comfort and peace.
The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved down the dreary vista of Eglinton street, the sky opened into fields of blue and the April sun silvered the puddles. It was in such place and under such weather that Dickson suffered an overwhelming experience.
It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the game of psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing happened. I concern myself only with facts. Suddenly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of himself within, a smug leaden little figure which simpered and preened itself and was hollow as a rotten nut. And he hated it.
The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had been right. He only played with life. That imbecile image was a mere spectator, content to applaud, but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had been all right as a provision merchant, but when it fancied itself capable of higher things it had deceived itself. Foolish little image with its brave dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward, running away at the first threat of danger. It was as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wand pointing to the embarrassed phantom that was himself, and ruthlessly exposing its frailties! And yet the pitiless showman was himself too—himself as he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable.
Dickson suffered a spasm of mortal agony. “Oh, I’m surely not so bad as all that,” he groaned. But the hurt was not only in his pride. He saw himself being forced to new decisions, and each alternative was of the blackest. He fairly shivered with the horror of it. The car slipped past a suburban station from which passengers were emerging—comfortable black-coated men such as he had once been. He was bitterly angry with Providence for picking him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk for this sore ordeal. “Why was I tethered to sich a conscience?” was his moan. But there was that stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring his soul. “You flatter yourself you have done your share,” he was saying. “You will make pretty stories about it to yourself, and some day you may tell your friends, modestly disclaiming