LITMIR.BIZ

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a hash o’ my back door wi’ your dirty feet! What are ye slinkin’ roond here for, when I tell’t ye this mornin’ that I wad sell ye nae mair scones till ye paid for the last lot? Ye’re a wheen thievin’ hungry callants, and if there were a polisman in the place I’d gie ye in chairge. What’s that ye say? Ye’re no’ wantin’ meat? Ye want to speak to the gentlemen that’s bidin’ here? Ye ken the auld ane, says you? I believe it’s a muckle lee, but there’s the gentlemen to answer ye theirsels.”

      Mrs. Morran, brandishing a dish-clout dramatically, flung open the door, and with a vigorous push propelled into the kitchen a singular figure.

      It was a stunted boy, who from his face might have been fifteen years old, but had the stature of a child of twelve. He had a thatch of fiery red hair above a pale freckled countenance. His nose was snub, his eyes a sulky grey-green, and his wide mouth disclosed large and damaged teeth. But remarkable as was his visage, his clothing was still stranger. On his head was the regulation Boy Scout hat, but it was several sizes too big, and was squashed down upon his immense red ears. He wore a very ancient khaki shirt, which had once belonged to a full-grown soldier, and the spacious sleeves were rolled up at the shoulders and tied with string, revealing a pair of skinny arms. Round his middle hung what was meant to be a kilt—a kilt of home manufacture, which may once have been a tablecloth, for its bold pattern suggested no known clan tartan. He had a massive belt, in which was stuck a broken gully-knife, and round his neck was knotted the remnant of what had once been a silk bandanna. His legs and feet were bare, blue, scratched, and very dirty, and this toes had the prehensile look common to monkeys and small boys who summer and winter go bootless. In his hand was a long ash-pole, new cut from some coppice.

      The apparition stood glum and lowering on the kitchen floor. As Dickson stared at it he recalled Mearns Street and the band of irregular 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 hiding a Secret. I knew it as soon as I seen the man Lean’s face. I once seen the same kind o’ scoondrel at the Picters. When he opened his mouth to swear, I kenned he was a foreigner, like the lads down at the Broomielaw. That looked black, but I hadn’t got at the worst of it. Then he loosed off at me wi’ his gun.”

      “Were you not feared?” said Dickson.

      “Ay, I was feared. But ye’ll no’ choke off the Gorbals Die-Hards wi’ a gun. We held a meetin’ round the camp fire, and we resolved to get to the bottom o’ the business. Me bein’ their Chief, it was my duty to make what they ca’ a reckonissince, for that was the dangerous job. So a’ this day I’ve been going on my belly about thae policies. I’ve found out some queer things.”

      Heritage had risen and was staring down at the small squatting figure.

      “What have you found out? Quick. Tell me at once.” His voice was sharp and excited.

      “Bide a wee,” said the unwinking Dougal. “I’m no’ going to let ye into this business till I ken that ye’ll help. It’s a far bigger job than I thought. There’s more in it than Lean and Spittal. There’s the big man that keeps the public—Dobson, they ca’ him. He’s a Namerican, which looks bad. And there’s two-three tinklers campin’ down in the Garple Dean. They’re in it, for Dobson was colloguin’ wi’ them a’ mornin’. When I seen ye, I thought ye were more o’ the gang, till I mindit that one o’ ye was auld McCunn that has the shop in Mearns Street. I seen that ye didna’ like the look o’ Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin’ I needit help.”

      Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

      “For God’s sake, boy,” he cried, “tell us what you know!”

      “Will ye help?”

      “Of course, you little fool.”

      “Then swear,” said the ritualist. From a grimy wallet he extracted a limp little volume which proved to be a damaged copy of a work entitled Sacred Songs and Solos. “Here! Take that in your right hand and put your left hand on my pole, and say after me. ‘I swear no’ to blab what is telled me in secret, and to be swift and sure in obeyin’ orders, s’help me God!’ Syne kiss the bookie.”

      Dickson at first refused, declaring that it was all havers, but Heritage’s docility persuaded him to follow suit. The two were sworn.

      “Now,” said Heritage.

      Dougal squatted again on the hearth-rug, and gathered the eyes of his audience. He was enjoying himself.

      “This day,” he said slowly, “I got inside the Hoose.”

      “Stout fellow,” said Heritage; “and what did you find there?”

      “I got inside that Hoose, but it wasn’t once or twice I tried. I found a corner where I was out o’ sight o’ anybody unless they had come there seekin’ me, and I sklimmed up a rone pipe, but a’ the windies were lockit and I verra near broke my neck. Syne I tried the roof, and a sore sklim I had, but when I got there there were no skylights. At the end I got in by the coal-hole. That’s why ye’re maybe thinkin’ I’m no’ very clean.”

      Heritage’s patience was nearly exhausted.

      “I don’t want to hear how you got in. What did you find, you little devil?”

      “Inside the Hoose,” said Dougal slowly (and there was a melancholy

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