LITMIR.BIZ

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plank and struck into the moorland, as Dougal had ordered, keeping the bald top of Grey Carrick before him. In that wild place with the tempest battling overhead he had no fear of human enemies. Steadily he covered the ground, till he reached the west-flowing burn, that was to lead him to the shore. He found it an entertaining companion, swirling into black pools, foaming over little falls, and lying in dark canal-like stretches in the flats. Presently it began to descend steeply in a narrow green gully, where the going was bad, and Dickson, weighted with pack and waterproof, had much ado to keep his feet on the sodden slopes. Then, as he rounded a crook of hill, the ground fell away from his feet, the burn swept in a water-slide to the boulders of the shore, and the storm-tossed sea lay before him.

      It was now that he began to feel nervous. Being on the coast again seemed to bring him inside his enemies’ territory, and had not Dobson specifically forbidden the shore? It was here that they might be looking for him. He felt himself out of condition, very wet and very warm, but he attained a creditable pace, for he struck a road which had been used by manure-carts collecting seaweed. There were faint marks on it, which he took to be the wheels of Dougal’s “machine” carrying the provision-box. Yes. On a patch of gravel there was a double set of tracks, which showed how it had returned to Mrs. Sempill. He was exposed to the full force of the wind, and the strenuousness of his bodily exertions kept his fears quiescent, till the cliffs on his left sunk suddenly and the valley of the Laver lay before him.

      A small figure rose from the shelter of a boulder, the warrior who bore the name of Old Bill. He saluted gravely.

      “Ye’re just in time. The water has rose three inches since I’ve been here. Ye’d better strip.”

      Dickson removed his boots and socks. “Breeks too,” commanded the boy; “there’s deep holes ayont thae stanes.”

      Dickson obeyed, feeling very chilly, and rather improper. “Now follow me,” said the guide. The next moment he was stepping delicately on very sharp pebbles, holding on to the end of the scout’s pole, while an icy stream ran to his knees.

      The Laver as it reaches the sea broadens out to the width of fifty or sixty yards and tumbles over little shelves of rock to meet the waves. Usually it is shallow, but now it was swollen to an average depth of a foot or more, and there were deeper pockets. Dickson made the passage slowly and miserably, sometimes crying out with pain as his toes struck a sharper flint, once or twice sitting down on a boulder to blow like a whale, once slipping on his knees and wetting the strange excrescence about his middle, which was his tucked-up waterproof. But the crossing was at length achieved, and on a patch of sea-pinks he dried himself perfunctorily and hastily put on his garments. Old Bill, who seemed to be regardless of wind or water, squatted beside him and whistled through his teeth.

      Above them hung the sheer cliffs of the Huntingtower cape, so sheer that a man below was completely hidden from any watcher on the top. Dickson’s heart fell, for he did not profess to be a cragsman and had indeed a horror of precipitous places. But as the two scrambled along the foot, they passed deep-cut gullies and fissures, most of them unclimbable, but offering something more hopeful than the face. At one of these Old Bill halted, and led the way up and over a chaos of fallen rock and loose sand. The grey weather had brought on the dark prematurely, and in the half-light it seemed that this ravine was blocked by an unscalable nose of rock. Here Old Bill whistled, and there was a reply from above. Round the corner of the nose came Dougal.

      “Up here,” he commanded. “It was Mr. Heritage that fund this road.”

      Dickson and his guide squeezed themselves between the nose and the cliff up a spout of stones, and found themselves in an upper storey of the gulley, very steep, but practicable even for one who was no cragsman. This in turn ran out against a wall up which there led only a narrow chimney. At the foot of this were two of the Die-Hards, and there were others above, for a rope hung down, by the aid of which a package was even now ascending.

      “That’s the top,” said Dougal, pointing to the rim of sky, “and that’s the last o’ the supplies.” Dickson noticed that he spoke in a whisper, and that all the movements of the Die-Hards were judicious and stealthy. “Now, it’s your turn. Take a good grip o’ the rope, and ye’ll find plenty holes for your feet. It’s no more than ten yards and ye’re well held above.”

      Dickson made the attempt and found it easier than he expected. The only trouble was his pack and waterproof, which had a tendency to catch on jags of rock. A hand was reached out to him, he was pulled over the edge, and then pushed down on his face. When he lifted his head Dougal and the others had joined him, and the whole company of the Die-Hards was assembled on a patch of grass which was concealed from the landward view by a thicket of hazels. Another, whom he recognized as Heritage, was coiling up the rope.

      “We’d better get all the stuff into the old Tower for the present,” Heritage was saying. “It’s too risky to move it into the House now. We’ll need the thickest darkness for that, after the moon is down. Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising soon, and before that we must all be indoors.”

      Then he turned to Dickson and gripped his hand. “You’re a high class of sportsman, Dogson. And I think you’re just in time.”

      “Are they due to-night?” Dickson asked in an excited whisper, faint against the wind.

      “I don’t know about They. But I’ve got a notion that some devilish queer things will happen before to-morrow morning.”

      CHAPTER 9

       THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES

       Table of Contents

      The old keep of Huntingtower stood some three hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs, a gnarled wood of hazels and oaks protecting it from the sea-winds. It was still in fair preservation, having till twenty years before been an adjunct of the house of Dalquharter, and used as kitchen, buttery, and servants’ quarters. There had been residential wings attached, dating from the mid-eighteenth century, but these had been pulled down and used for the foundations of the new mansion. Now it stood a lonely shell, its three storeys, each a single great room connected by a spiral stone staircase, being dedicated to lumber and the storage of produce. But it was dry and intact, its massive oak doors defied any weapon short of artillery, its narrow unglazed windows would scarcely have admitted a cat—a place portentously strong, gloomy, but yet habitable.

      Dougal opened the main door with a massy key. “The lassie fund it,” he whispered to Dickson, “somewhere about the kitchen—and I guessed it was the key o’ this castle. I was thinkin’ that if things got ower hot it would be a good plan to flit here. Change our base, like.” The Chieftain’s occasional studies in war had trained his tongue to a military jargon.

      In the ground room lay a fine assortment of oddments, including old bedsteads and servants’ furniture, and what looked like ancient discarded deerskin rugs. Dust lay thick over everything, and they heard the scurry of rats. A dismal place, indeed, but Dickson felt only its strangeness. The comfort of being back again among allies had quickened his spirit to an adventurous mood. The old lords of Huntingtower had once quarrelled and revelled and plotted here, and now here he was at the same game. Present and past joined hands over the gulf of years. The saga of Huntingtower was not ended.

      The Die-Hards had brought with them their scanty bedding, their lanterns and camp-kettles. These and the provisions from Mearns Street were stowed away in a corner.

      “Now for the Hoose, men,” said Dougal. They stole over the downs to the shrubbery, and Dickson found himself almost in the same place as he had lain in three days before, watching a dusky lawn, while the wet earth soaked through his trouser knees and the drip from the azaleas trickled over his spine. Two of the boys fetched the ladder and placed it against the verandah wall. Heritage first, then Dickson, darted across the lawn and made the ascent. The six scouts followed, and the ladder was pulled up and hidden among the verandah litter. For a second the whole eight stood still and listened. There was no sound except the murmur of the now falling wind and the melancholy

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