Free The Maggie by James Dillon White Page A

his heart hecould hear the determined grunting of the laird. He staggered wildly and only just saved himself from falling. Then, at last, he realised that he was still clutching the pheasant. He flung it violently away, and protested with his last gasping breath, ‘This has nothing to do with me!’
    The next moment he felt the laird’s clutching hand at his shoulder, and they were wrestling on the bank of the canal.
    â€˜Hold on, Sir George! I’m coming!’
    Stung to a last effort by the factor’s cry Pusey struggled away. The laird, who was also near exhaustion, held him grimly by the lapel.
    Then with a resounding tear the lapel ripped away from the coat. Thrown off balance the laird staggered, balanced for an interminable moment with flailing arms, before falling backwards over the canal bank.
    He hit the water with a terrible splash. He submerged and came up gasping, ‘Help! I can’t swim! Help!’
    Pusey, who had run a few paces along the bank, hesitated. Then, seeing that the factor and the constable were still some distance away, he knelt on the bank and extended a hand.
    His worst failing, as Mr Marshall had often told him, was not knowing his own mind. Just as the laird made a frantic grab, Pusey realised that the factor and constable must catch him before he could drag the laird from the water. He withdrew his hand hurriedly and the laird went under for the second time.
    By this time the factor had reached the point on the canal bank and Pusey had staggered a few paces towardsfreedom. The factor knelt, as Pusey had done, and extended his hand. But the laird’s instinct for self-preservation was confused with an even stronger emotion, a desire to murder Pusey. Still floundering and thrashing the water, he yelled hysterically, ‘Arrest that man! Arrest . . .’ The rest was lost as he sank for the third time.
    The unfortunate Pusey had everything against him to the last. Hearing the shout he made the mistake of glancing back. At that moment his weary feet caught on a stone and he fell heavily in the dust.
    As he looked up, with all fight gone, he saw the laird being dragged from the water. Although the laird was quite unable to speak he could still gesticulate. He made violent signs at Pusey, and the factor, understanding, left the constable to complete the rescue.
    Pusey, who had twisted his ankle, was soon overtaken by the furious factor. Too weak, too lame, too breathless to resist, he waited humbly for the last indignities of fate.

Chapter Twelve
    (1)
    In his suite at the Central in Glasgow, Marshall was preparing to leave. The small adventure was over, and, by catching the night train, he would only have lost one day. It was quite a story in its way – worth telling to Johnson and Vanders, and young Blair of Asiatic Chemicals. He jotted a note of the Skipper’s name while he remembered it – MacTaggart. Foolish to spoil a story by forgetting the details. MacTaggart: now there was a man!
    The door of his room was open and he heard Miss Peters opening the outer door.
    â€˜Oh, good evening.’
    A voice he remembered, the voice of the reporter Fraser. ‘Good evening. My editor said Mr Marshall wanted me to stop by and . . .’
    He called out, ‘Come in, Mr Fraser.’
    The young man came in diffidently, and yet with a certain eagerness as though, even now, there might be some unexpected twist to what he called in his newspaper‘The Puffer Story’. You never knew with a man like MacTaggart. You could never say the story was finished until the old man was dead or safely under lock and key. Even then . . .
    Marshall was saying, ‘Well, Mr Fraser . . .’ He broke off as he saw his secretary. She asked, ‘If you don’t want anything else, Mr Marshall . . .’
    Marshall nodded. ‘That’s all right, Miss Peters. If you could call me half an hour before train time.’ From the