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 I
have 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.
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