Late that evening they reached a city which the home-coming chieftain in an outburst of Celtic fervor dubbed “mine own bonny Edinburg!” and there they repaired for the night to a hotel. Once more the Baron (we may still style him so since the peerage of Tulliwuddle was of that standing also) showed a certain diffidence when it came to answering to his new title in public; but in the seclusion of their private sitting-room he was careful to assure his friend that this did not arise from any lack of nerve or qualms zof conscience, but merely through a species of headache—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 of whisky 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 door wide, and getting Bunker to address him as “Tollyvoddle,” in a strident voice, “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; “bot I 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 those who have undergone it (and the report is confirmed by an experienced class of public officials) to require a species of hardihood which, fortunately for society, is somewhat rare. The most daring Smith will sometimes stammer when it comes to merely answering “Yes” to a cry of “Brown!” and Count Bunker, whose knowledge of human nature was profound and remarkably accurate, was careful to fortify his friend by example and praise, till by the time they went to bed the Baron could scarcely be withheld from seeking out the manager and airing his assurance upon him. Or, at least, he declared he would have done this had he been sure that the manager was not already in bed himself.
Unfortunately at this juncture the Count committed one of those indiscretions to which a gay spirit is always prone, but which, to do him justice, seldom sullied his own record as a successful adventurer. At an hour considerably past midnight, hearing an excited summons from the Baron's bedroom, he laid down his toothbrush and hastened across the passage, to find the new peer in a crimson dressing-gown of quilted silk gazing enthusiastically at a lithograph that hung upon the wall.
“See!” he cried gleefully, “here is my own ancestor. Bonker, I feel I am Tollyvoddle indeed.”
The print which had inspired this enthusiasm depicted a historical but treasonable 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 omen would 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 to various premonitions recorded in the history of his family, and the horrible consequences of disregarding them.
But by the time they had started upon their journey north, his spirits rose a trifle; and when at length all lowland landscapes were left far behind them, and they had come into a province of peat streams and granite pinnacles, with the gloom of pines and the freshness of the birch blended like a May and December marriage, all appearance, at least, of disquietude had passed away.
Yet the Count kept an anxious eye upon him. He was becoming decidedly restless. At one moment he would rave about the glorious scenery; the next, plunge into a brown study of the Tulliwuddle rent-roll; and then in an instant start humming an air and smoking so fast that both their cases were empty while they were yet half an hour from Torrydhulish Station. Now the Baron took to biting his nails, looking at his watch, and answering questions at random—a very different spectacle from the enthusiastic 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 piled mountains on the farther shore perfectly mirrored; a tern or two lazily fishing; a delicate summer sky smiling above. All at once Count Bunker started—
“That must be Hechnahoul!” said he.
The Baron looked and beheld, upon an eminence across the loch, the towers 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 cannot do 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 vas omen!”
Never did the genius of Bunker rise more audaciously to an occasion.
“My dear Baron,” said he, assuming on the instant a confidence-inspiring smile, “that print was a hoax; it wasn't old Tulliwuddle at all. I faked it 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 passengers on board, a peculiarly magnificent footman already had his hand upon the door. 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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