CHAPTER I--A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK
The 25th day of August, 1751, about two in the afternoon, I, David
Balfour, came forth of the British Linen Company, a porter
attending me with a bag of money, and some of the chief of these
merchants bowing me from their doors. Two days before, and even so
late as yestermorning, I was like a beggar-man by the wayside, clad
in rags, brought down to my last shillings, my companion a
condemned traitor, a price set on my own head for a crime with the
news of which the country rang. To-day I was served heir to my
position in life, a landed laird, a bank porter by me carrying my
gold, recommendations in my pocket, and (in the words of the
saying) the ball directly at my foot.
There were two circumstances that served me as ballast to so much
sail. The first was the very difficult and deadly business I had
still to handle; the second, the place that I was in. The tall,
black city, and the numbers and movement and noise of so many folk,
made a new world for me, after the moorland braes, the sea-sands
and the still country-sides that I had frequented up to then. The
throng of the citizens in particular abashed me. Rankeillor's son
was short and small in the girth; his clothes scarce held on me;
and it was plain I was ill qualified to strut in the front of a
bank-porter. It was plain, if I did so, I should but set folk
laughing, and (what was worse in my case) set them asking
questions. So that I behooved to come by some clothes of my own,
and in the meanwhile to walk by the porter's side, and put my hand
on his arm as though we were a pair of friends.
