The recognition was mutual. "Mr. McCunn!" the bagman exclaimed.
"My, but that was running it fine! I hope you've had a pleasant
holiday, sir?"

"Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights with friends
down hereaways. I've been very fortunate in the weather, for
it has broke just when I'm leaving."

Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had been a near thing,
but so far he had won. He wished his heart did not beat so
fast, and he hoped he did not betray his disorder in his face.
Very deliberately he hunted for his pipe and filled it slowly.
Then he turned to Dobson, "I didn't know you were travelling the day.
What about your oil-cake?"

"I've changed my mind," was the gruff answer.

"Was that you I heard crying on me when we were running for the train?"

"Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist."

"No fear," said Dickson. "I'm no' likely to forget my auntie's scones."

He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the bagman. Thereafter the
compartment hummed with the technicalities of the grocery trade.
He exerted himself to draw out his companion, to have him refer to
the great firm of D. McCunn, so that the innkeeper might be ashamed
of his suspicions. What nonsense to imagine that a noted and wealthy
Glasgow merchant--the bagman's tone was almost reverential--would