THE DRY-FLY FISHERMAN
and I had some nasty falls into peat-bogs. I had only about ten miles to go as the crow flies, but my mistakes made it nearer twenty. The last bit was completed with set teeth and a very light and dizzy head. But I managed it, and in the early dawn I was knocking at Mr. Turnbull's door. The mist lay close and thick, and from the cottage I could not see the highroad.
Mr. Turnbull himself opened to me—sober and something more than sober. He was primly dressed in an ancient but well-tended suit of black; he had been shaved not later than the night before; he wore a linen collar; and in his left hand he carried a pocket Bible. At first he did not recognise me.
"Whae are ye that comes stravaigin' here on the Sabbath mornin'?" he asked.
I had lost all count of the days. So the Sabbath was the reason for his strange decorum.
My head was swimming so wildly that I could not frame a coherent answer. But he recognised me and he saw that I was ill.
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