very
pale face in the arms of a tall man whom he had never seen before. If
he was surprised at the sight, he did not show it. "Nasty little bomb
that. I remember we struck the brand first in July '18."

"Are they rounded up?" Sir Archie asked.

"They've bolted. Whether they'll get away is another matter. I left
half the mounted police a minute ago at the top of the West Lodge
avenue. The other lot went to the Garplefoot to cut off the boats."

"Good Lord, man," Sir Archie cried, "the police have been here for the
last ten minutes."

"You're wrong. They came with me."

"Then what on earth---" began the astonished baronet. He stopped
short, for he suddenly got his answer. Into the hall limped a boy.
Never was there seen so ruinous a child. He was dripping wet, his
shirt was all but torn off his back, his bleeding nose was poorly
staunched by a wisp of handkerchief, his breeches were in ribbons, and
his poor bare legs looked as if they had been comprehensively kicked
and scratched. Limpingly he entered, yet with a kind of pride, like
some small cock-sparrow who has lost most of his plumage but has
vanquished his adversary.

With a yell Dougal went down the stairs. The boy saluted him, and they
gravely shook hands. It was the meeting of Wellington and Blucher.

The Chieftain's voice shrilled in triumph, but there was a break in it.
The glory was almost too great to be borne.

"I kenned it," he cried. "It was the Gorbals Die-Hards. There stands
the man that done it.... Ye'll no' fickle Thomas Yownie."

CHAPTER XV

THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION

We left Mr. McCunn, full of aches but desperately resolute in spirit,
hobbling by the Auchenlochan road into the village of Dalquharter. His
goal was Mrs. Morran's hen-house, which was Thomas Yownie's POSTE DE
COMMANDEMENT. The rain had come on again, and, though in other weather
there would have been a slow twilight, already the shadow of night had
the world in its grip. The sea even from the high ground was
invisible, and all to westward and windward was a ragged screen of dark
cloud. It was foul weather for foul deeds. Thomas Yownie was not in
the hen-house, but in Mrs. Morran's kitchen, and with him were the
pug-faced boy know as Old Bill, and the sturdy figure of Peter
Paterson. But the floor was held by the hostess. She still wore her
big boots, her petticoats were still kilted, and round her venerable
head in lieu of a bonnet was dra