egular Boy
Scouts who paraded to the roll of tin cans. Before him stood Dougal,
Chieftain of the Gorbals Die-Hards. Suddenly he remembered the
philanthropic Mackintosh, and his own subscription of ten pounds to the
camp fund. It pleased him to find the rascals here, for in the
unpleasant affairs on the verge of which he felt himself they were a
comforting reminder of the peace of home.

"I'm glad to see you, Dougal," he said pleasantly. "How are you all
getting on?" And then, with a vague reminiscence of the Scouts'
code--"Have you been minding to perform a good deed every day?"

The Chieftain's brow darkened.

"'Good Deeds!'" he repeated bitterly. "I tell ye I'm fair wore out wi'
good deeds. Yon man Mackintosh tell't me this was going to be a grand
holiday. Holiday! Govey Dick! It's been like a Setterday night in
Main Street--a' fechtin', fechtin'."

No collocation of letters could reproduce Dougal's accent, and I will
not attempt it. There was a touch of Irish in it, a spice of
music-hall patter, as well as the odd lilt of the Glasgow vernacular.
He was strong in vowels, but the consonants, especially the letter "t,"
were only aspirations.

"Sit down and let's hear about things," said Dickson.

The boy turned his head to the still open back door, where Mrs. Morran
could be heard at her labours. He stepped across and shut it. "I'm no'
wantin' that auld wife to hear," he said. Then he squatted down on the
patchwork rug by the hearth, and warmed his blue-black shins. Looking
into the glow of the fire, he observed, "I seen you two up by the Big
Hoose the night."

"The devil you did," said Heritage, roused to a sudden attention. "And
where were you?"

"Seven feet from your head, up a tree. It's my chief hidy-hole, and
Gosh! I need one, for Lean's after me wi' a gun. He had a shot at me
two days syne."

Dickson exclaimed, and Dougal with morose pride showed a rent in his
kilt. "If I had had on breeks, he'd ha' got me."

"Who's Lean?" Heritage asked.

"The man wi' the black coat. The other--the lame one--they ca'
Spittal."

"How d'you know?"

"I've listened to them crackin' thegither."

"But what for did the man want to shoot at you?" asked the scandalized
Dickson.

"What for? Because they're frightened to death o' onybody going near
their auld Hoose. They're a pair of deevils, worse nor any Red Indian,
but for a' that they're sweatin' wi' fright. What for? says you.
Because they're hi