ashion in this
critical age."

CHAPTER III

HOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO THE DARK TOWER

Dickson woke with a vague sense of irritation. As his recollections
took form they produced a very unpleasant picture of Mr. John Heritage.
The poet had loosened all his placid idols, so that they shook and
rattled in the niches where they had been erstwhile so secure. Mr.
McCunn had a mind of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly
at all times to revise his views. But by this iconoclast he had been
only irritated and in no way convinced. "Sich poetry!" he muttered to
himself as he shivered in his bath (a daily cold tub instead of his
customary hot one on Saturday night being part of the discipline of his
holiday). "And yon blethers about the working-man!" he ingeminated as
he shaved. He breakfasted alone, having outstripped even the
fishermen, and as he ate he arrived at conclusions. He had a great
respect for youth, but a line must be drawn somewhere. "The man's a
child," he decided, "and not like to grow up. The way he's besotted on
everything daftlike, if it's only new. And he's no rightly young
either--speaks like an auld dominie, whiles. And he's rather impident,"
he concluded, with memories of "Dogson.".... He was very clear that he
never wanted to see him again; that was the reason of his early
breakfast. Having clarified his mind by definitions, Dickson felt
comforted. He paid his bill, took an affectionate farewell of the
landlord, and at 7.30 precisely stepped out into the gleaming morning.

It was such a day as only a Scots April can show. The cobbled streets
of Kirkmichael still shone with the night's rain, but the storm clouds
had fled before a mild south wind, and the whole circumference of the
sky was a delicate translucent blue. Homely breakfast smells came from
the houses and delighted Mr. McCunn's nostrils; a squalling child was a
pleasant reminder of an awakening world, the urban counterpart to the
morning song of birds; even the sanitary cart seemed a picturesque
vehicle. He bought his ration of buns and ginger biscuits at a baker's
shop whence various ragamuffin boys were preparing to distribute the
householders' bread, and took his way up the Gallows Hill to the Burgh
Muir almost with regret at leaving so pleasant a habitation.

A chronicle of ripe vintages must pass lightly over small beer. I will
not dwell on his leisurely progress in the bright weather, or on his