Logan bought his railway and steamer tickets. As he turned to go, the manager had an afterthought. “One moment, sir. Meg, d’ye mind the card that man left? The man that spoke with me concerning Carnglass?” Aye, Meg – a stocky red-faced lass in her teens – minded it; she put it bashfully into the young American gentleman’s hand. “Aye, sir, I had near forgot,” the manager said, “but this man came in a month gone and said that should any gentleman inquire after Carnglass, he might put him in the way of a passage.”
It was a soiled card with crumpled corners, cheaply printed, and it read, “James Dowie, Commission Agent. 5 Mutto’s Wynd, Gallowgate.”
“How far is Gallowgate?” Logan asked.
The old manager drew in his lower lip and then protruded it meditatively. “Why, sir, the Gallowgate’s far above the Tron. And it’s late in the day. Would tomorrow do as well, sir?”
“No,” said Logan, “I’m usually in a hurry. Surely a taxi could take me there in ten minutes?”
The manager fumbled with his spectacles. “Between ourselves, now, sir, the Gallowgate’s not the place for an American gentleman by himself, with the night coming on. Mind ye, sir, I’ve had no trouble of my own in the Gallowgate. But this Mutto’s Wynd will be some wee vennel or passage, and dark. Ye’ve heard tell of Teddy Boys and such? Aye. Well, if ye must go, take a cab, sir; and make the driver wait for ye. The man that left this card – he would be a bookie, I think. Nothing against him, sir, nothing whatsoever. And the chief constable has done fine work in the Gallowgate and the Gorbals, verra gude work. They were worse when I was a lad. But were I yourself, sir, I wouldna stop in a pub there. In the Gallowgate, the folk think all Americans are millionaires. Would it were true, sir? Ha, ha. Aye, would it were true.”
Going into the washroom at the travel-agency, Logan took out of his pockets his passport, his traveller’s checks, and most of the pound notes he had got at the hotel desk. He put them into the leather money-belt he wore beneath his shirt. Logan had been around, though most people wouldn’t credit it, apparently, when they looked at his face; and he had the thorn stick with him. Then he took a cab to Mutto’s Wynd, in the Gallowgate.
Mutto’s Wynd turning out too narrow for any motorcar, the driver parked the cab at the mouth of the entry. In Mutto’s Wynd, most of the buildings were derelict, and some unroofed, since the Scots pay no taxes on roofless buildings. Even for smoke-grimed Glasgow, Mutto’s Wynd was very black. The dreary little building that was No. 5 stood near the mouth of the vennel, and the cab would be almost within call.
Although the windows of No. 5 seemed not to have been washed in this decade, a freshly-painted sign nailed above the door read “J. Dowie, Commission Agent.” Logan gave the driver a pound note. “Keep the change,” Logan said, “but wait for me.” The driver sighed, looking uneasily down the wynd. Three doors beyond, there projected the sign of a public house, the Dun Stirk. “But stay near the cab.”
“O aye,” the driver grunted, “ye needna teach this auld dog new tricks.” Logan rapped at the battered door of No. 5.
Quite promptly, a heavy-jowled little man in a sagging business-suit and a soiled old cap opened that door. “Come in, mon,” he said. “Ye’ll be thinkin’ o’ the pool?” The little low room – this building, elderly for rebuilt Glasgow, seemed once to have been a stable – contained a decrepit desk and three straight chairs; the walls, long ago, had been painted cream-color. The little man spoke the thickest Glasgow speech, with its clipped words and rolled r’s.
“Mr. Dowie?” Aye, he was Mr. Dowie. “Mr. Dowie, I’ve been told you might know of a way to get to Carnglass.”
Dowie, sucking in his fat cheeks, looked long and slyly at Logan. “Tak’ a chair, mon. Ye’ll no be frae these parts?”
Logan sat. “I’m an American, Mr. Dowie, with business in Carnglass.”
Dowie leaned against the desk. “An’ what wud that business be?”
“I’m representing my principal.”
“Weel, then, Mr. American, ye’ll no object if I draw the curtains.” Dowie pulled heavy blanket-drapes across the filthy glass; he bolted the door. Logan sat easily on the rickety chair. “If it be Carnglass,” said Dowie, “that ye mean tae see, then ye’ll ken Tam Lagg?”
“The factor. Yes, we’ve corresponded with him.”
“Aye, just so. And ye’ll ken Dr. Jackman?” Here Dowie, stooping slightly, looked Logan in the eyes.
“No, Mr. Dowie, I don’t know any Dr. Jackman.”
“Ye dinna ken Jackman? Noo think o’this, Mr. American: I’m official agent o’ Tam Lagg. Ye’ve no need to keep matters frae me. What might your name be?”
“Hugh Logan. I’m to see Lady MacAskival.”
“O aye. Lady MacAskival. She’s no keepin’ verra weel, ye ken.”
“So I understand.”
“No weel enough for chit-chat, Mr. Logan.” Dowie nodded mournfully. “And noo ye’re in auld Scotland, ye’ll tak’ a trip to Rabbie Burns’ country?”
“I’ve only time for a Carnglass trip.”
“Rabbie Burns’ country is Alloway and Ayr, ye ken, Mr. Logan. A braw poet, Rabbie Burns. ‘A mon’s a mon for a’ that’ – eh, Mr. Logan?” An unconvincing smile came suddenly over Dowie’s sodden face, and he clapped a dirty hand on Logan’s shoulder, in token of comradeship. Logan did not move or smile.
“I suppose what Burns meant, Mr. Dowie, is that worth and genius matter more than rank – or as much, anyway. I don’t know that he had Glasgow bookies in mind.”
“O aye,” Dowie muttered, removing his hand. He scowled uneasily, and then brightened artificially again. “O aye. I see ye’re a card, Mr. Logan. Aye, a poet o’ the first water, Rabbie Burns. But ye’ve fine writers in the States, too. Political writers. Ye’ll ken ane or twa o’ them?”
Logan shook his head. “I don’t know a single political writer, Mr. Dowie.”
“And ye’ll no ken Dr. Jackman?”
“This literary conversation is very pleasant, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said. “But do you know of a ship or a launch that will take me to Carnglass?”
Dowie sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer. “Noo your principal, Mr. Logan – he’ll be Mr. Duncan MacAskival?”
Over the edge of the open drawer, a cablegram form was just visible. “Then you’re the agent for forwarding the post to Carnglass, Mr. Dowie.”
“Wha’ loon told ye that?”
“Has Lady MacAskival received our cables?”
“Wud I be a miracle-man, Mr. Logan? I canna send word tae Carnglass by Tellie – by TV, ye Yanks say. And wha’ wi’ the high seas, there’s no boat that wud put oot for Daldour nor Carnglass these three days syne.”
“Then I suppose Lady MacAskival’s not expecting me?”
“Ye can suppose wha’ ye like, Mr. Logan.”
“When can I get passage from Glasgow to Carnglass?”