Mr.MacAngus had just finished his ham and eggs, and was lighting his pipe.
"Good morning, Slowcoaches," he said."I'm very pleased to see you.Sit down wherever you like.Furniture by Dame Nature; everything as nice as Mother makes it.This is a friendly, reasonable hour to meet.That young brother of yours--I suppose he is your brother"--pointing to Robert--"pays calls in the middle of the night.He seems to think every caravan in the world belongs to him.How a man who lives in a London terrace knows his house I never could understand, but to recognize one's own caravan ought to be quite easy."Mr MacAngus, you must understand, did not say all this in one breath, for he was a slow man.But it reads as if he did, because none of the others uttered a word.It was all too bewildering and also too amusing.He was so big and so strange, and he had such a twinkle in his eye, that they preferred to let him go on, knowing that whatever he said would be entertaining.
"Well," he said at last, "now we must stop talking nonsense and introduce ourselves.But first I should like you all to guess who I am and what I do for a living.You first," he said, pointing to Janet.
"I think you are a kind of hermit," she said at last.
"Right," he said."But that's not enough.What do I do? You," he added, pointing to Mary, "what do you think I do?""Perhaps you lecture," said Mary, "or preach.No, I don't think you preach.
I think very likely you speak to villagers about politics--tariff reform and things like that."The big man laughed."Very well," he said."Now you," to Robert.
"I think you're a gentleman gipsy," said Robert."Like Lavengro.Are you? ""In a way," said the stranger, "but I shan't tell you till you've all guessed."Jack Rotheram then guessed that he was a spy, and this amused him immensely.
"In a kind of way I am that too," he answered."At any rate, I am always looking out for the fatness of the land."Hester guessed he had a broken heart because of a disappointment in love, and was living all alone because he hated the world, like Lord Byron.
He liked this most of all, and laughed for a long time--much longer, he explained afterwards, than a broken-hearted Lord Byron would have done.
Horace Campbell did not exactly guess, but said that he hoped that the stranger was a gentleman burglar--a kind of Raffles and Robin Hood in one--who robbed only the wicked rich and helped the poor."As," he added, "I want to.""Oh, do you?" said the big man."Well, don't rob me, anyway.Wait till Ihave led the Snail to a place of safety."And lastly Gregory guessed."I think," he said, "you are a vagabond.""Gregory!" cried Janet; "you mustn't say things like that," while the stranger laughed again.
"Why not? " Gregory inquired."I mean like the Wandering Jew Mr.Crawley told us about.He called him the prince of vagabonds.""Well," said the stranger, "Gregory's right.I am a vagabond.But I'm something else too, and I'll tell you.I'm an artist.My name is Hamish MacAngus.I live in the Snail most of the summer, and in London in the winter.I cover pieces of cardboard and canvas with paint more or less like trees, and cows, and sheep, and skies, and people who have more pennies than brains buy them from me; and then I take the pennies, and change them for the nice sensible things of life, such as bacon, and tobacco, and oats.
My horse's name is Pencil.I came here from Banbury, and I am ****** slowly for Cropthorne.Now tell me all about yourselves.Tell me in the order of age."The children looked at each other, and laughed.
