'...that we were surrounded! Ay, it was a hopeless enough pickle we were in. So I turned about and went back to the mill...'
Thus Alan to me, as we took a walk together along a secluded pathway out behind the house and policies of Shaws. He was telling me a tale of his adventures in France, when he and his company of the Scottish regiment had got into some fantastic peril from which he had saved them all (or supposedly he had; at times I suspected him of a little exaggeration in these matters, though I do not doubt that the main part of it was true). We were walking in the shade of tall oak trees touched with the first brown of early autumn; a cushat cooed softly from somewhere amongst the leaves; a squirrel made a great rustling as it scampered along a branch, occasionally showing itself in rust-red glimpses. It was a fine day amongst fine surroundings; and with Alan's voice and step beside me, I was happy.
I stood still for a moment to watch the squirrel as it stood on the branch of the nearest tree with an acorn clutched in its tiny hands. Alan stopped also, and continued his story from somewhere behind me.
'There we stood, all at once face to face with the enemy! But I was well pleased with the danger, ay, for I saw my chance...'
The squirrel disappeared behind the tree trunk, and I went to resume my walk. But at once I stopped again; for, turning round, I found Alan not at all where I expected to find him—that is to say, his head was at about the level of my neck, rather than that of my shoulder, where I was accustomed to see it.
Startled by this sudden upwards growth, 'What have ye done, man Alan?' I began to say, interrupting his narration. But as I spoke I looked at the ground for the clue, and soon found it. Amongst the dry brown leaves upon the ground were occasional pieces of debris from the fields and orchards behind this little wood; and Alan had found one of these, an empty wooden apple box, and stood upon it.
He had an occasional habit of making such improvements to his stature, when addressing a company or otherwise wanting to make himself noticed (though, in my opinion, he little needed the help). It was a sore trial I always had not to laugh aloud at it; on this occasion, surprised as I was, I soon failed in that attempt.
Alan's face clouded over. He affected to misunderstand me, saying, 'Our peril was no laughing matter, Davie!'
'You know quite well it's not that I'm laughing at,' said I, still smiling.
But at this he frowned more deeply. Actually I suspected him of not being entirely serious in this either; but I had no wish to wound his fine pride in truth. So I stepped forward, caught him in my arms and kissed him—smiling again, despite myself, to feel how much less far I had to lean down than I was used to.
'Alan,' I said, 'I like your invention very well.' And I nudged the box, on which he was still standing, with my foot.
'Ye make good use of it, Davie, that's certain,' he replied.
A moment passed, during which we looked at each other. Then, at the same instant, we both burst out into laughter.
And we were still smiling when—it was a little while afterwards—we turned to continue our walk.