The Free Fishers by John Buchan

Author:John Buchan [Buchan, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure fiction
Publisher: epubBooks Classics
Published: 2015-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XI

Tells of Arrivals and Departures

But it was not the unexpected sight of the Chief Fisher that held Nanty's eyes. In Nickson's elbow–chair, an ancient thing of oak padded with sheep skin, sat a pale young man with a bandaged forehead. In a second he was on his knees beside him.

"Harry, my dear Harry," he cried. "God be praised that I have found you. You are ill? You are wounded?"

The young man patted the hand that had been laid on his knees.

"If I were ill," he said, "the sight of you, old friend, would cure me. But I am well enough, though somewhat stiff in the joints. My wound is a mere scratch. I have been dosing all day here, and feel ready for any exertion…. But tell me, Nanty, what heaven–sent chance brought you here?"

"I came in search of you—to save you. I was told of your danger. I saw Sir Turnour Wyse last night. Have you met him?"

"My brave Nanty, did you propose to act as my second? Or, like my family, to spirit me away? Be comforted, for Sir Turnour and I have spoken together, and our feud is for the time pretermitted. Indeed, I think Sir Turnour may be in the same boat as the rest of us. Ask Nickson."

The little kitchen had an earthen floor, except for the stone flags round the hearth. There were the remains of food on the table—a braxy ham and a plate of oaten farles, an earthenware jug of ale, and a tun–bellied whisky bottle of the kind called a "mason's mell." The peat fire burned briskly, and everything in the place was clean and bright as a new pin. Jock Kinloch had curled himself on a sheepskin by the hearth like a great cat, and Bob Muschat balanced himself on a corner of the table. Nickson, the host, sat on the edge of the press–bed, and Eben Garnock, square as a Dutch lugger, stood in the centre of the floor, ruminating like a cow at pasture.

Nickson spoke. "If ye mean the gentleman that's bidin' at the inn, he got up this mornin' late and cried on Purdey. But Purdey was awa' south afore day wi' horses, and there was naebody about the place but servant lassies. So the gentleman sets off on his feet for Hungrygrain, tellin' his bodyservant that he wad be back or lang. But he's no back yet, and his man is rangin' Yonderdale looking for him. He was seen to enter the house, but no to leave it."

"He's likely to be in my own case," said Belses. "If you drop in at Hungrygrain you stay there. God! what a place! A man would be safer among the Moors in Africa."

"Tell me your story," Nanty demanded. "There's a puzzle here which I must piece together."

Belses repeated briefly what he had told to Sir Turnour the night before.

"Did Cranmer mean to do you a mischief?" Nanty asked.

"He meant to keep me shut up till after something happened—I do not know what.

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