The Thirty-Nine Steps

by John Buchan

I envied the people for having something to do. These shop-girls and clerks and dandies and policemen had some interest in life that kept them going.

“Where did you find out this story?” I asked. “I got the first hint in an inn on the Achensee in Tyrol. That set me inquiring, and I collected my other clues in a fur-shop in the Galician quarter of Buda, in a Strangers’ Club in Vienna, and in a little bookshop off the Racknitzstrasse in Leipsic.

When he came back we dined together, and in common decency I had to let him pump me.

A roadman’s eyes would no doubt be a little inflamed, so I contrived to get some dust in both of mine, and by dint of vigorous rubbing produced a bleary effect.

My toilet complete, I took up the barrow and began my journeys to and from the quarry a hundred yards off.

I thought of the little white cottage as my home, I recalled the years I had spent herding on Leithen Water, I made my mind dwell lovingly on sleep in a box-bed and a bottle of cheap whisky.

Contrary to general belief, I was not a murderer, but I had become an unholy liar, a shameless impostor, and a highwayman with a marked taste for expensive motor-cars.

I let out with my left, and had the satisfaction of seeing him measure his length in the gutter.