CHAPTER VII
Late that evening they reached a city which the home-coming chieftain inan outburst of Celtic fervor dubbed "mine own bonny Edinburg!" and therethey repaired for the night to a hotel. Once more the Baron (we maystill style him so since the peerage of Tulliwuddle was of that standingalso) showed a certain diffidence when it came to answering to his newtitle in public; but in the seclusion of their private sitting-room hewas careful to assure his friend that this did not arise from any lackof nerve or qualms zof conscience, but merely through a species ofheadache--the result of railway travelling.
"Do not fear for me," he declared as he stirred the sugar in his glass,"I have ze heart of a lion."
The liquid he was sipping being nothing less potent than a brew ofwhisky punch, which he had ordered (or rather requested Bunker to order)as the most romantically national compound he could think of, produced,indeed, a fervor of foolhardiness. He insisted upon opening the doorwide, and getting Bunker to address him as "Tollyvoddle," in a stridentvoice, "so zat zey all may hear," and then answering in a firm "Yes,Count Bonker, vat vould you say to me?"
It is true that he instantly closed the door again, and even bolted it,but his display seemed to make a vast impression upon himself.
"Many men vould not dare so to go mit anozzer name," he announced; "botI have my nerves onder a good gontrol."
"You astonish me," said the Count.
"I do even surprise myself," admitted the Baron.
In truth the ordeal of carelessly carrying off an alias is said by thosewho have undergone it (and the report is confirmed by an experiencedclass of public officials) to require a species of hardihood which,fortunately for society, is somewhat rare. The most daring Smith willsometimes stammer when it comes to merely answering "Yes" to a cry of"Brown!" and Count Bunker, whose knowledge of human nature was profoundand remarkably accurate, was careful to fortify his friend by exampleand praise, till by the time they went to bed the Baron could scarcelybe withheld from seeking out the manager and airing his assurance uponhim. Or, at least, he declared he would have done this had he been surethat the manager was not already in bed himself.
Unfortunately at this juncture the Count committed one of thoseindiscretions to which a gay spirit is always prone, but which, to dohim justice, seldom sullied his own record as a successful adventurer.At an hour considerably past midnight, hearing an excited summons fromthe Baron's bedroom, he laid down his toothbrush and hastened across thepassage, to find the new peer in a crimson dressing-gown of quilted silkgazing enthusiastically at a lithograph that hung upon the wall.
"See!" he cried gleefully, "here is my own ancestor. Bonker, I feel I amTollyvoddle indeed."
The print which had inspired this enthusiasm depicted a historical buttreasonable Lord Tulliwuddle preparing to have his head removed.
Giving it a droll look, the Count observed--
"Well, if it inspires you, my dear Baron, that's all right. The omenwould have struck me differently."
"Ze omen!" murmured the Baron with a start.
It required all Bunker's tact to revive his ally's damped enthusiasm,and even at breakfast next morning he referred in a gloomy voice tovarious premonitions recorded in the history of his family, and thehorrible consequences of disregarding them.
But by the time they had started upon their journey north, his spiritsrose a trifle; and when at length all lowland landscapes were leftfar behind them, and they had come into a province of peat streams andgranite pinnacles, with the gloom of pines and the freshness of thebirch blended like a May and December marriage, all appearance, atleast, of disquietude had passed away.
Yet the Count kept an anxious eye upon him. He was becoming decidedlyrestless. At one moment he would rave about the glorious scenery; thenext, plunge into a brown study of the Tulliwuddle rent-roll; and thenin an instant start humming an air and smoking so fast that both theircases were empty while they were yet half an hour from TorrydhulishStation. Now the Baron took to biting his nails, looking at his watch,and answering questions at random--a very different spectacle from theenthusiastic traveller of yesterday.
"Only ten minutes more," observed Bunker in his most cheering manner.
The Baron made no reply.
They were now running along the brink of a glimmering loch, the piledmountains on the farther shore perfectly mirrored; a tern or two lazilyfishing; a delicate summer sky smiling above. All at once Count Bunkerstarted--
"That must be Hechnahoul!" said he.
The Baron looked and beheld, upon an eminence across the loch, thetowers and turrets of an imposing mansion overtopping a green grove.
"And here is the station," added the Count.
The Baron's face assumed a piteous expression.
"Bonker," he stammered, "I--I am afraid! You be ze Tollyvoddle--I cannotdo him!"
"My dear Baron!"
"Oh, I cannot!"
"Be brave--for the honor of the fatherland. Play the bold Blitzenberg!"
"Ach, ja; but not bold Tollyvoddle. Zat picture--you vere right--it vasomen!"
Never did the genius of Bunker rise more audaciously to an occasion.
"My dear Baron," said he, assuming on the instant a confidence-inspiringsmile, "that print was a hoax; it wasn't old Tulliwuddle at all. I fakedit myself."
"So?" gasped the Baron. "You assure me truly?"
Muttering (the historian sincerely hopes) a petition for forgiveness,Bunker firmly answered--
"I do assure you!"
The train had stopped, and as they were the only first-class passengerson board, a peculiarly magnificent footman already had his hand upon thedoor. Before turning the handle, he touched his hat.
"Lord Tulliwuddle?" he respectfully inquired.
"Ja--zat is, yes, I am," replied the Baron.
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