“I’m going to introjuice ye to the rest o’ us,” said Dougal. “Here, men!” he called, and four figures rose from the side of the fire. As Dickson munched a sandwich he passed in review the whole company of the Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also brought in, two others taking their places. There was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with a wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had borrowed from his neck. There was a burly lad who wore trousers much too large for him, and who was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction presumably for Peter Paterson. After him came a lean tall boy who answered to the name of Napoleon. There was a midget of a child, desperately sooty in the face either from battle or from fire-tending, who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last came the picket who had held his pole at Dickson’s chest, a sandy-haired warrior with a snub nose and the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old Bill, or, in Dougal’s parlance, “Auld Bull.”
The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with a grim content. “That’s a tough lot for ye, Mr. McCunn. Used a’ their days wi’ sleepin’ in coal-rees and dunnies and dodgin’ the polis. Ye’ll no beat the Gorbals Die-Hards.”
“You’re right, Dougal,” said Dickson. “There’s just the six of you. If there were a dozen, I think this country would be needing some new kind of a government.”
CHAPTER 8
HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A CHALLENGE
The first cocks had just begun to crow and clocks had not yet struck five when Dickson presented himself at Mrs. Morran’s back door. That active woman had already been half an hour out of bed, and was drinking her morning cup of tea in the kitchen. She received him with cordiality, nay, with relief.
“Eh, sir, but I’m glad to see ye back. Guid kens what’s gaun on at the Hoose thae days. Mr. Heritage left here yestreen, creepin’ round by dyke-sides and berry-busses like a wheasel. It’s a mercy to get a responsible man in the place. I aye had a notion ye wad come back, for, thinks I, nevoy Dickson is no the yin to desert folk in trouble… Whaur’s my wee kist?… Lost, ye say. That’s a peety, for it’s been my cheesebox thae thirty year.”
Dickson ascended to the loft, having announced his need of at least three hours’ sleep. As he rolled into bed his mind was curiously at ease. He felt equipped for any call that might be made on him. That Mrs. Morran should welcome him back as a resource in need gave him a new assurance of manhood.
He woke between nine and ten to the sound of rain lashing against the garret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of sleep and recovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his disgust that he had lost his composure. All the flock of fears, that had left him when on the top of the Glasgow tram-car he had made the great decision, had flown back again and settled like black crows on his spirit. He was running a horrible risk and all for a whim. What business had he to be mixing himself up in things he did not understand? It might be a huge mistake, and then he would be a laughing stock; for a moment he repented his telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion; there could be no mistake, except the fatal one that he had taken on a job too big for him. He sat on the edge of the bed and shivered with his eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt more stout-hearted had the sun been shining.
He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the village street was Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason told him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter hid as long as possible. There was a knock at the cottage door, and presently Mrs. Morran appeared.
“It’s the man frae the inn,” she announced. “He’s wantin’ a word wi’ ye. Speakin’ verra ceevil, too.”
“Tell him to come up,” said Dickson. He might as well get the interview over. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know of their conversation. The sight of himself back again when he had pretended to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered just what line Dobson would take.
The innkeeper obtruded his bulk through the low door. His face was wrinkled into a smile, which nevertheless left the small eyes ungenial. His voice had a loud vulgar cordiality. Suddenly Dickson was conscious of a resemblance, a resemblance to somebody whom he had recently seen. It was Loudon. There was the same thrusting of the chin forward, the same odd cheek-bones, the same unctuous heartiness of speech. The innkeeper, well washed and polished and dressed, would be no bad copy of the factor. They must be near kin, perhaps brothers.
“Good morning to you, Mr. McCunn. Man, it’s pitifu’ weather, and just when the farmers are wanting a dry seed-bed. What brings ye back here? Ye travel the country like a drover.”
“Oh, I’m a free man now and I took a fancy to this place. An idle body has nothing to do but please himself.”
“I hear ye’re taking a lease of Huntingtower?”
“Now who told you that?”
“Just the clash of the place. Is it true?”
Dickson looked sly and a little annoyed.
“I had maybe had half a thought of it, but I’ll thank you not to repeat the story. It’s a big house for a plain man like me, and I haven’t properly inspected it.”
“Oh, I’ll keep mum, never fear. But if ye’ve that sort of notion, I can understand you not being able to keep away from the place.”
“That’s maybe the fact,” Dickson admitted.
“Well! It’s just on that point I want a word with you.” The innkeeper seated himself unbidden on the chair which held Dickson’s modest raiment. He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger tapped Dickson’s pyjama-clad knees. “I can’t have ye wandering about the place. I’m very sorry, but I’ve got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you think that by bidin’ here you can see more of the House and the policies, ye’re wrong, Mr. McCunn. It can’t be allowed, for we’re no’ ready for ye yet. D’ye understand? That’s Mr. Loudon’s orders… Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye went back to Glasgow and came back in a week’s time? I’m thinking of your own comfort, Mr. McCunn.”
Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was clearly instructed to get rid of him at all costs for the next few days. The neighbourhood had to be cleared for some black business. The tinklers had been deputed to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards, and as for Heritage they seemed to have lost track of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object of their care. But what could Dobson do if he refused? He dared not show his true hand. Yet he might, if sufficiently irritated. It became Dickson’s immediate object to get the innkeeper to reveal himself by rousing his temper. He did not stop to consider the policy of this course; he imperatively wanted things cleared up and the issue made plain.
“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you for thinking so much about my comfort,” he said in a voice into which he hoped he had insinuated a sneer. “But I’m bound to say you’re awful suspicious folk about here. You needn’t be feared for your old policies. There’s plenty of nice walks about the roads, and I want to explore the sea-coast.”
The last words seemed to annoy the innkeeper. “That’s no’ allowed either,” he said. “The shore’s as private as the policies… Well, I wish ye joy tramping the roads in the glaur.”
“It’s a queer thing,” said Dickson meditatively, “that you should keep a hotel and yet be set on discouraging people from visiting this neighbourhood. I tell you what, I believe that hotel of yours is all sham. You’ve some other business, you and these lodgekeepers, and in my opinion it’s not a very creditable