en was the eternal pilgrim; he was
Jason, Ulysses, Eric the Red, Albuquerque, Cortez--starting out to
discover new worlds.

Before he left Mr. McCunn had given Tibby a letter to post. That
morning he had received an epistle from a benevolent acquaintance, one
Mackintosh, regarding a group of urchins who called themselves the
"Gorbals Die-Hards." Behind the premises in Mearns Street lay a tract
of slums, full of mischievous boys, with whom his staff waged truceless
war. But lately there had started among them a kind of unauthorized
and unofficial Boy Scouts, who, without uniform or badge or any kind of
paraphernalia, followed the banner of Sir Robert Baden-Powell and
subjected themselves to a rude discipline. They were far too poor to
join an orthodox troop, but they faithfully copied what they believed
to be the practices of more fortunate boys. Mr. McCunn had witnessed
their pathetic parades, and had even passed the time of day with their
leader, a red-haired savage called Dougal. The philanthropic
Mackintosh had taken an interest in the gang and now desired
subscriptions to send them to camp in the country.

Mr. McCunn, in his new exhilaration, felt that he could not deny to
others what he proposed for himself. His last act before leaving was
to send Mackintosh ten pounds.

CHAPTER II

OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE IN POINTS OF VIEW

Dickson McCunn was never to forget the first stage in that pilgrimage.
A little after midday he descended from a grimy third-class carriage at
a little station whose name I have forgotten. In the village nearby he
purchased some new-baked buns and ginger biscuits, to which he was
partial, and followed by the shouts of urchins, who admired his
pack--"Look at the auld man gaun to the schule"--he emerged into open
country. The late April noon gleamed like a frosty morning, but the
air, though tonic, was kind. The road ran over sweeps of moorland
where curlews wailed, and into lowland pastures dotted with very white,
very vocal lambs. The young grass had the warm fragrance of new milk.
As he went he munched his buns, for he had resolved to have no
plethoric midday meal, and presently he found the burnside nook of his
fancy, and halted to smoke. On a patch of turf close to a grey stone
bridge he had out his Walton and read the chapter on "The Chavender or
Chub." The collocation of words delighted him and inspired him to
verse. "Lavender or Lub"--"Pavender