play with as a boy. There was no wind in that undergrowth, and
any movement must be due to bird or beast. The tit flew off, and the
oscillations of the bracken slowly died away. Then they began again,
but more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird that caused
them. It must be something down at the roots of the covert, a rabbit,
perhaps, or a fox, or a weasel.

He watched for the first sign of the beast, and thought he caught a
glimpse of tawny fur. Yes, there it was--pale dirty yellow, a weasel
clearly. Then suddenly the patch grow larger, and to his amazement he
looked at a human face--the face of a pallid small boy.

A head disentangled itself, followed by thin shoulders, and then by a
pair of very dirty bare legs. The figure raised itself and looked
sharply round to make certain that the coast was clear. Then it stood
up and saluted, revealing the well-known lineaments of Wee Jaikie.

At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by that certainty of
instinct which is independent of proof, like the man who prays for a
sign and has his prayer answered. He observed that the boy was quietly
sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position for an instant with red-rimmed
eyes and then unclasped a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his
thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second later Dickson's wrists
were free. Then he sawed at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied
them together, and then--most circumspectly--assaulted the cord which
bound Dickson's neck to the trunk. There now remained only the two
bonds which fastened the legs and the body to the tree.

There was a sound in the wood different from the wind and stream.
Jaikie listened like a startled hind.

"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you bide where ye are and let
on ye're still tied up."

He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as a rat, while two of
the tinklers came up the slope from the waterside. Dickson in a fever
of impatience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remaining bonds so
that he could at least have made a dash for freedom. And then he
realized that the boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was, he
would have stood no chance in a race.

One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. He had been running hard,
and was mopping his brow.

"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin' anchor ayont the
Dookits whaur there's a bield frae the wund and deep water. They'll be
landit in half an 'oor. Awa' you