Page 93 - the-thirty-nine-steps

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Dry-Fly Fisherman

I sat down on a hill-top and took stock of my position. I
wasn’t feeling very happy, for my natural thankfulness at my
escape was clouded by my severe bodily discomfort. Those
lentonite fumes had fairly poisoned me, and the baking
hours on the dovecot hadn’t helped matters. I had a crush-
ing headache, and felt as sick as a cat. Also my shoulder was
in a bad way. At first I thought it was only a bruise, but it
seemed to be swelling, and I had no use of my left arm.
My plan was to seek Mr Turnbull’s cottage, recover my
garments, and especially Scudder’s note-book, and then
make for the main line and get back to the south. It seemed
to me that the sooner I got in touch with the Foreign Of-
fice man, Sir Walter Bullivant, the better. I didn’t see how
I could get more proof than I had got already. He must just
take or leave my story, and anyway, with him I would be in
better hands than those devilish Germans. I had begun to
feel quite kindly towards the British police.
It was a wonderful starry night, and I had not much dif-
ficulty about the road. Sir Harry’s map had given me the lie
of the land, and all I had to do was to steer a point or two
west of south-west to come to the stream where I had met
the roadman. In all these travels I never knew the names of

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