John Buchan

The Island of Sheep John Buchan

All that autumn and early winter I had an uneasy feeling at the back of my mind. I had mypleasant country-gentleman's existence, but some of the zest had gone out of it. Instead offeeling, as I usually did, that it was the only life for a white man, I had an ugly suspicion thatsatisfaction with it meant that I had grown decrepit. And at the same time I had a queerexpectation that an event was about to happen which would jog me out of my rut intosomething much less comfortable, and that I had better bask while the sun shone, for itwouldn't shine long. Oddly enough, that comforted me. I wasn't looking for any moredifficult jobs in this world, but the mere possibility of one coming along allowed me toenjoy my slippered days with a quieter conscience. In the week before Christmas came the second of the chain of happenings which were theprelude to this story. My son came into it, and here I must beg leave to introduce PeterJohn, now in his fourteenth year. The kind of son I had hoped for when he was born was the typical English boy, good atgames, fairly intelligent, reasonably honest and clean, the kind of public-school productyou read about in books. I say had 'hoped for, ' for it was the conventional notion mostfathers entertain, though I doubt if I should have had much patience with the reality. Anyhow, Peter John was nothing like that. He didn't care a rush for the public-school spirit. He was rather a delicate child, but after he had passed his seventh birthday his healthimproved, and at his preparatory school he was a sturdy young ruffian who had noailments except the conventional mumps and measles. He was tall for his age and ratherhandsome in his own way. Mary's glorious hair in him took the form of a sandy thatchinclining to red, but he had her blue eyes and her long, slim hands and feet. He had mymouth and my shape of head, but he had a slightly sullen air which he could have got fromneither of us. I have seen him when he was perfectly happy looking the picture of gloom. Hewas very quiet in his manner; had a pleasant, low voice; talked little, and then withprodigiously long words. That came of his favourite reading, which was the Prophet Isaiah, Izaak Walton, and an eighteenth-century book on falconry translated from the French. Oneof his school reports said he spoke to his masters as Dr. Johnson might have addressed astreet-ara