He was standing on the main-line departure platform of St. Pancras
Station. Motionless, as though on guard over the bookstall, he might
have been made of the granite of his native country, and I felt sure
that his name was Sandy or Jock.
His war-stained khaki bore traces of many ordeals undergone; even the
big, red knees were flecked with mud. Around him hung the extraordinary
medley of equipment that so thoroughly justifies the old Army axiom
that a soldier is "something to hang things on."
A red face beamed out like a beacon from the mass of paraphernalia, a
wisp of sandy hair peeped from under the soft khaki headgear, but the
steady blue eyes glanced at me with hard suspicion as I felt for my
cigarette-case; and thinking my action might be misunderstood, I went
into the refreshment-room and dined.
Nearly three-quarters of an hour later I emerged. It was eight o'clock,
and I had half an hour longer to wait for my train to the Midlands. I
gasped when I saw the Highlander still standing on sentry-go beside
the bookstall. Presently he shouldered his rifle and paced along the
platform. There was a clatter, and his steel helmet slipped from his
back and rolled towards me. I just saved it from going under the wheels
of a heavy luggage truck a porter was pushing along.
The Highlander took his property with gruff word of thanks.
"Losh, mon; it's a terrible city!" he murmured, as he placed his rifle
between his knees and groped among the multitudinous buckles and straps
on his broad back. "D'ye ken it's been my life's dream to see yon
London? Ma old mither don't believe in dreams--and I'm thinkin' she's
reet. I'll be glad when eleven o'clock comes and I'm off for bonnie
Scotland!"
"Eleven o'clock!" I gasped. "Why, you've nearly three hours to wait,
and you were here when I arrived just after seven."
"Aye; I've been here since four o'clock. Mon, I know this platform as
well as I know ma own wee house! I feel safer here than in yon streets."
Having fixed his steel helmet to his satisfaction on top of the other
gear, he swung his rifle round on the sling--nearly braining an elderly
gentleman who was passing behind him in the process. Ignoring the
civilian's angry protest, he turned to me.
"That's the sixth," he said, shortly, and a faint glimmer of amusement
came into his clear blue eyes, "the sixth thieving rascal that felt ma
rifle this day. They hang round trying to steal something from ma kit.
It's a terrible city. I've been discoverin' it all day."
"Look here," I said, "I've half an hour to spare, and you must be
feeling hungry. I can't offer you a drink, but if you'll come and have
some hot tea or cocoa and something to eat, I'll be proud, and you can
tell me of your adventures."
The Scot eyed me suspiciously.
"A wee lassie made the same offer three hours since," he replied,
doubtfully. "A lassie all in furs, but I didna trust her, and I told
her so. She was after ma money or ma kit, or she wouldn't have been
so angry at having been found oot! But I'll trust ye, mon. I want a
bite of something, and if it's my adventures you want to hear, it's a
wonderful story I'll have to tell ye."
And here is the tale he told me, though I can only indicate the broad
Scots in which he spoke.