is knapsack.

"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm sure you've been awful
kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you for all you're sending."

"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk about Glesca that'll be
glad o' my scones and jeelie. Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her
man, and haste ye back soon."

The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart, and Dickson clambered
into the back seat. He was thankful that he had not to sit next to
Dobson, for he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning was wet,
so he wore his waterproof, which concealed his odd tendency to
stoutness about the middle.

Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the becoming gravity of an
affectionate aunt, but as soon as the post-cart turned the bend of the
road her demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions of silent
laughter. She retreated to the kitchen, sank into a chair, wrapped her
face in her apron and rocked. Heritage, descending, found her
struggling to regain composure. "D'ye ken his wife's name?" she
gasped. "I ca'ed her Mirren! And maybe the body's no' mairried! Hech
sirs! Hech sirs!"

Meanwhile Dickson was bumping along the moor-road on the back of the
post-cart. He had worked out a plan, just as he had been used
aforetime to devise a deal in foodstuffs. He had expected one of the
watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved that it should be Dobson,
whom he regarded as "the most natural beast" of the three. Somehow he
did not think that he would be molested before he reached the station,
since his enemies would still be undecided in their minds. Probably
they only wanted to make sure that he had really departed to forget all
about him. But if not, he had his plan ready.

"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.

"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake I'm expectin'.
What's in your wee kist? Ye came here wi' nothing but the bag on your
back."

"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's a kind body, and
nothing would serve but she must pack a box for me to take back. Let me
see. There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and one of
rhubarb jam--she was aye famous for her rhubarb jam; a mutton ham,
which you can't get for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made black
puddings, and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt I'll have to take a cab
from the station."

Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe, and relapsed into
meditation. The