The Argosy — page 166: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

I5I THE LAST ELM OF THE AVENUE. A PITCH-DARK night, rain falling in torrents, wind blowing gustily from every point of the compass at once. ‘Two or three oil lamps flickered feebly in the gloom on a struggling crowd of damp passengers, a chaotic mass of luggage, and—no porters. Such were my earliest impressions on being turned out of the London down train at Westwood, the station for Cinqhaven, whither I and some half-dozen other officers were bound, to complete our education by a course of musketry instruction. “ Wheres Cinghaven?” was my first very natural inquiry. . “‘ And how am I to get there?” Cinghaven was ‘‘across there,” a civil official replied, pointing over an expanse of ploughed field in the direction of the South Pole. The one omnibus had, it appeared, departed with a small selection from the impatient crowd of belated travellers, but would be back again directly. ' ‘* How soon ?” I asked. ‘Well, in about an hour or so.” I thanked him, committed my belongings to his care, and with a benediction on my luck and the colonel who had sent me there, plunged out into the night. Outside the station I found an officer with his party, a sergeant and some privates, about to march to Cinghaven: and gladly joined them. I took for granted some one knew the way. J didn’t. Such a night! Rain pelting us viciously, wind blowing our fragmentary attempts at conversation away into space. Finally, at a point where five roads met, and the wind and rain did their wickedest, we halted. Fire and candle-light streamed invitingly out of the unshuttered window of a low, white house; a sign creaked over our heads in the darkness, and, after brief debate, in we all turned to the cozy kitchen of the Green Lion. We were not unwilling to accept the landlady’s assurances that the storm would ‘ blow itself out” in half an hour or less. She invited us into her own snug parlour, and here, for the first time, I got a good look at my companion. He was a tall, handsome fellow, with dark complexion, and curiously light eager eyes; by name, I discovered, Captain Angus MacLeish, of the 34th (Royal Cromarty) Highlanders. (Here I may introduce myself to my readers: Lieutenant Jones, Royal North Wales Militia. ) Captain MacLeish was rather stiff and high and mighty at first, I thought—very much the Highland chieftain. ‘‘ Caolchairn,” or some such pretty name, was, I found, his correct designation. Still, I let COMIC DOOCIKKS.CO