rom Mrs. Morran,
and I've left a big box of fancy things at Dalquharter station. Can you
laddies manage to get it down here?"

Dougal reflected. "Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sempill's powny, the same that
fetched our kit."

"Well, that's your job to-morrow. See, I'll write you a line to the
station-master. And will you undertake to get it some way into the
House?"

"There's just the one road open--by the rocks. It'll have to be done.
It CAN be done."

"And I've another job. I'm writing this telegram to a friend in
Glasgow who will put a spoke in Mr. Loudon's wheel. I want one of you
to go to Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office there."

Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom. "What about yourself?
We want somebody outside to keep his eyes open. It's bad strawtegy to
cut off your communications."

Dickson thought for a moment. "I believe you're right. I believe the
best plan for me is to go back to Mrs. Morran's as soon as the old
body's like to be awake. You can always get at me there, for it's easy
to slip into her back kitchen without anybody in the village seeing
you.... Yes, I'll do that, and you'll come and report developments to
me. And now I'm for a bite and a pipe. It's hungry work travelling the
country in the small hours."

"I'm going to introjuice ye to the rest o' us," said Dougal. "Here,
men!" he called, and four figures rose from the side of the fire. As
Dickson munched a sandwich he passed in review the whole company of the
Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also brought in, two others
taking their places. There was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with
a wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had borrowed from his
neck. There was a burly lad who wore trousers much too large for him,
and who was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction presumably for Peter
Paterson. After him came a lean tall boy who answered to the name of
Napoleon. There was a midget of a child, desperately sooty in the face
either from battle or from fire-tending, who was presented as Wee
Jaikie. Last came the picket who had held his pole at Dickson's chest,
a sandy-haired warrior with a snub nose and the mouth and jaw of a
pug-dog. He was Old Bill, or, in Dougal's parlance, "Auld Bull."

The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with a grim content. "That's
a tough lot for ye, Mr. McCunn. Used a' their days wi' sleepin' in
coal-rees and dunnies and dodgin' the polis. Ye'll no beat t