Phil had heard somewhere that Scotsmen and Chinamen understand each other better than any other nationalities on the globe do, but this was the first time he had had a first-hand ocular demonstration that the Chinaman appreciated the Doric of Robbie Burns, when delivered with the true native feeling.

Langford bowed his acknowledgement in a courtly manner, as Sir Henry Irving might have done before a royal audience.

Some of the maudlin white men shouted for an encore.

Nothing loth, Jim laughingly consented, and a hush went over the crowd again, for there was a peculiar hypnotism coming from this erratic individual that commanded the attention of all his listeners.

A little, old, monkey-faced Chinaman, carrying a parcel in his hand, was standing close by. Langford caught hold of him gently and stood the bashful individual before him. In paternal fashion he placed his hand on the greasy, grey head and started impressively into the farewell exhortation of Polonius to Laertes, out of Hamlet:

"And these few precepts in thy memory.

Look thou to character. Give thy thoughts no tongue Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar"...

On he recited, oblivious of all but the charm of the words he uttered, careful lest a single phrase might pa.s.s his lips without its due measure of expression. He finished in a whisper; his voice full of emotion and tears glistening in his deep-set eyes, much to the amazement of the monkey-face upturned to him.

"This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man."

Deep silence followed, until the squeaky voice of little monkey-face broke through:--

"Ya,--you bet,--me savvy!"

It shattered the spell that was on Langford. He laughed, and grabbed the parcel from the hand of the little Chinaman. He pulled the string from it and the paper wrappings, exposing a b.l.o.o.d.y ox-heart which was destined never to fulfil the purpose for which it was bought.

Throwing off his sheet cloak, Langford became transformed into a figure of early history. He held the ox-heart high in the air with his left hand and struck a soldierly att.i.tude.

He was now the famous Black Douglas of Scotland, fighting his last fight against the Moors in Spain, with the heart of his beloved dead monarch, Robert Bruce, in the silver casket in which he had undertaken to carry it to the Holy Land.

Parrying and thrusting with his imaginary sword, gasping, panting in a.s.sumed exhaustion, staggering, recovering and fighting again, then feigning wounds of a deadly nature, he threw the ox-heart over the heads of his gaping spectators toward the door, where it fell at Phil's feet.

"Onward, brave Heart," he cried, "as thou wert wont to be in the field. Douglas will follow thee or die."

Then, casting his audience on either side of him, like falling thistles under a sickle, he sprang toward the exit. When he reached his objective, he stooped to pick up the ox-heart.

Phil smartly placed his foot on it.

Slowly Jim unbent himself, his eyes travelling from the foot that dared to interfere with his will, up the leg, body and chest, until at last they stared into the familiar eyes of his friend, who returned his stare with cold questioning. Thus they looked at each other for a moment, then Jim's eyes averted. He turned quickly away and pa.s.sed into the darkened roadway.

Phil followed, a short step behind.

Jim heard him and quickened his pace. Phil did likewise. Finally he broke into a run. Phil responded. He ran till his breath began to give out, but try as he would, Langford could not shake his follower.

There was no sign of any recognition; no word pa.s.sed between them.

Three or four times they circled Chinatown in this way. Langford next dropped into a long, swinging stride and started up toward the railway tracks and out on to the high road of Coldcreek. Doggedly, limpet-like, Phil kept closely to him.

On, on he walked, mile after mile, untiring, apparently unheeding, looking neither to right nor left. And on, on, after him, almost at his side, went his determined friend.

In an hour, Jim cut down a side road and commenced to circle back by the low road, past the lake and once again toward the fairy, twinkling lights of Vernock.

The Post Office clock chimed the first hour of a new day, when they got back.

Jim stopped up in front of a stable, pushed his way inside--for the door was ajar--tumbled down in a corner among some hay and, apparently, was soon fast asleep.

Phil dropped down beside him, but did not close his eyes.

And glad he was of it, for, about an hour later, very stealthily Jim rose on his elbow, looked into Phil's face, and, evidently satisfied that he was unconscious, rose and made softly for the door.

But when he turned to close it behind him, Phil was right by his side.

Without a word, Jim changed his mind and went straight back to his hay bed on the stable floor; and this time he tumbled into a deep sleep.

Phil must have dozed off too, for when he awoke the light of an Autumn sun was streaming through a dirty window on to his face.

He started up in consternation, but his fears were soon allayed for Jim Langford was still sleeping peacefully, dead to the world, with an upturned face tranquil and unlined, and innocent-looking as a baby boy's.

The work horses in their stalls were becoming restless. Phil examined his watch. It was six o'clock.

He knew that the teamster would soon be on his job getting his beasts ready for their day's work, so he roused Langford, who sat up in a semi-stupor, licking his lips with a dry, rough tongue.

He gazed at Phil for a while. Phil smiled in good humour.

"Man, but I'm a rotter!" said Jim.

"Of course you are!" agreed Phil. "We're both more or less rotters."

"But that son of a lobster McGregor knocked you cold," he pursued, starting in where he had left off several days before.

"He did, Jim, and threw me through the window to wind up with."

"And I'm the man that knows it, too. Lord!--but I'm as dry as if I had been eating salt fish for a week."

"And you can have a nice, big drink of fresh water at the trough outside whenever you are ready."

"Water, Phil! Have a heart!"

"Sure thing! Good fresh water!"

"'Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink,'" he quoted.

And sitting up, there among the hay, a strangely a.s.sorted pair they seemed as they conversed familiarly.

"Well,--I fancy I've had about enough this trip."

"You certainly have!"

"Ay, Phil,--but think of that big shrimp knocking us soft."

"_Us_, did you say?" put in Phil. "Then it is true, after all?"