THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS by JOHN BUCHAN

28 Oct 1993

Scanned and proofread by Kirk Robinson
<kirkr@panix.com>
Version used David R.Godine-Publisher 1990 softcover edition

Copyright 1915 by The Curtis Publishing Company

Transcription notes:

Italics thus _i_ italics _i_

Bold thus _b_ bold _b_

Underscore thus _u_ underscore _u_  accent
aigu thus Rene'

accent grave thus Se`vres

accent circonflex thus cha^teau

diaresis thus Ko"nigstrasse

The Thirty-Nine Steps
by John Buchan

1   The Man Who Died

I returned from the City about three o'clock on that
May afternoon pretty well disgusted with life. I had
been three months in the Old Country, and was fed up
with it. If any one had told me a year ago that I would
have been feeling like that I should have laughed at
him; but there was the fact. The weather made me
liverish, the talk of the ordinary Englishman made me
sick, I couldn't get enough exercise, and the
amusements of London seemed as flat as soda-water
that has been standing in the sun. "Richard Hannay," I
kept telling myself, "you have got into the wrong ditch,
my friend, and you had better climb out."

It made me bite my lips to think of the plans I had
been building up those last years in Bulawayo. I had
got my pile--not one of the big ones, but good enough
for me; and I had figured out all kinds of ways of
enjoying myself. My father had brought me out from
Scotland at the age of six, and I had never been home
since; so England was a sort of Arabian Nights to me,
and I counted on stopping there for the rest of my
days.

But from the first I was disappointed with it. In about a
week I was tired of seeing sights, and in less than a
month I had had enough of restaurants and theatres
and race-meetings. I had no real pal to go about with,
which probably explains things. Plenty of people
invited me to their houses, but they didn't seem much
interested in me. They would fling me a question or
two about South Africa, and then get on to their own
affairs. A lot of Imperialist ladies asked me to tea to
meet schoolmasters from New Zealand and editors
from Vancouver, and that was the dismallest business
of all. Here was I, thirty-seven years old, sound in wind
and limb, with enough money to have a good time,
yawning my head off all day. I had just about settled to
clear out and get back to the veld, for I was the best
bored man in the United Kingdom.

That afternoon I had been worrying my brokers about
investments to give my mind something to work on,
and on my way home I turned into my club--rather a
pot-house, which took in Colonial members. I had a
long drink, and read the evening papers. They were full
of the row in the Near East, and there was an article
about Karolides, the Greek Premier. I rather fancied the
chap. From all accounts he seemed the one big man in
the show; and he played a straight game too, which
was more than could be said for most of them. I
gathered that they hated him pretty blackly in Berlin
and Vienna, but that we were going to stick by him, and
one paper said that he was the only barrier between
Europe and Armageddon. I remember wondering if I
could get a job in those parts. It struck me that Albania
was the sort of place that might keep a man from
yawning.

About six o'clock I went home, dressed, dined at the
Cafe' Royal, and turned into a music-hall. It was a silly
show, all capering women and monkey-faced men, and
I did not stay long. The night was fine and clear as I
walked back to the flat I had hired near Portland Place.
The crowd surged past me on the pavements, busy
and chattering, and 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. I gave half a crown to a beggar
because I saw him yawn; he was a fellow-sufferer. At