The Power-House · John Buchan

Front Matter

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The POWER-HOUSE

Title: The Power-House

Author: John Buchan

Release date: August 3, 2018 [eBook #57631]

Most recently updated: April 17, 2019

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57631

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

By JOHN BUCHAN

The

POWER-HOUSE

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY * BOSTON

The Riverside Press Cambridge

COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE

THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

TO

MAJOR-GENERAL

SIR FRANCIS LLOYD, K.C.B.

MY DEAR GENERAL:

A recent tale of mine has, I am told, found favour in the dug-outs and billets of the British front, as being sufficiently short and sufficiently exciting for men who have little leisure to read. My friends in that uneasy region have asked for more. So I have printed this story, written in the smooth days before the war, in the hope that it may enable an honest man here and there to forget for an hour the too urgent realities. I have put your name on it, because among the many tastes which we share one is a liking for precipitous yarns.

J.B.

CONTENTS

Preface by the Editor

CHAPTER

I. Beginning of the Wild-Goose Chase

II. I First Hear of Mr. Andrew Lumley

III. Tells of a Midsummer Night

IV. I Follow the Trail of the Super-Butler

V. I Take a Partner

VI. The Restaurant in Antioch Street

VII. I Find Sanctuary

VIII. The Power-House

IX. Return of the Wild Geese

PREFACE BY THE EDITOR

We were at Glenaicill—six of us—for the duck-shooting, when Leithen told us this story. Since five in the morning we had been out on the skerries, and had been blown home by a wind which threatened to root the house and its wind-blown woods from their precarious lodgment on the hill. A vast nondescript meal, luncheon and dinner in one, had occupied us till the last daylight departed, and we settled ourselves in the smoking-room for a sleepy evening of talk and tobacco.

Conversation, I remember, turned on some of Jim's trophies which grinned at us from the firelit walls, and we began to spin hunting yarns. Then Hoppy Bynge, who was killed next year on the Bramaputra, told us some queer things about his doings in New Guinea, where he tried to climb Carstensz, and lived for six months in mud. Jim said he couldn't abide mud—anything was better than a country where your boots rotted. (He was to get enough of it last winter in the Ypres Salient.) You know how one tale begets another, and soon the whole place hummed with odd recollections, for five of us had been a good deal about the world.

All except Leithen, the man who was afterwards Solicitor-General, and, they say, will get to the Woolsack in time. I don't suppose he had ever been farther from home than Monte Carlo, but he liked hearing about the ends of the earth.

Jim had just finished a fairly steep yarn about his experiences on a Boundary Commission near Lake Chad, and Leithen got up to find a drink.

"Lucky devils," he said. "You've had all the fun out of life. I've had my nose to the grindstone ever since I left school."

I said something about his having all the honour and glory.

"All the same," he went on, "I once played the chief part in a rather exciting business without ever once budging from London. And the joke of it was that the man who went out to look for adventure only saw a bit of the game, and I who sat in my chambers saw it all and pulled the strings. 'They also serve who only stand and wait,' you know."

Then he told us this story. The version I give is one he afterwards wrote down when he had looked up his diary for some of the details.

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