Page 99 - the-thirty-nine-steps

any rate, I felt now that I was getting to grips with my job.
I was decanted at Crewe in the small hours and had to
wait till six to get a train for Birmingham. In the afternoon
I got to Reading, and changed into a local train which jour-
neyed into the deeps of Berkshire. Presently I was in a land
of lush water-meadows and slow reedy streams. About eight
o’clock in the evening, a weary and travel-stained being a
cross between a farm-labourer and a vet with a checked
black-and-white plaid over his arm (for I did not dare to
wear it south of the Border), descended at the little station
of Artinswell. There were several people on the platform,
and I thought I had better wait to ask my way till I was clear
of the place.
The road led through a wood of great beeches and then
into a shallow valley, with the green backs of downs peep-
ing over the distant trees. After Scotland the air smelt heavy
and flat, but infinitely sweet, for the limes and chestnuts
and lilac bushes were domes of blossom. Presently I came
to a bridge, below which a clear slow stream flowed between
snowy beds of water-buttercups. A little above it was a mill;
and the lasher made a pleasant cool sound in the scented
dusk. Somehow the place soothed me and put me at my
ease. I fell to whistling as I looked into the green depths,
and the tune which came to my lips was ‘Annie Laurie’.
A fisherman came up from the waterside, and as he
neared me he too began to whistle. The tune was infectious,
for he followed my suit. He was a huge man in untidy old
flannels and a wide-brimmed hat, with a canvas bag slung
on his shoulder. He nodded to me, and I thought I had never

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