"Stand, friend." The shadow before him whistled and another
shadow appeared. "Report to the Chief that there's a man here,
name o' McCunn, seekin' for him."

Presently the messenger returned with Dougal and a cheap lantern
which he flashed in Dickson's face.

"Oh, it's you," said that leader, who had his jaw bound up as if he
had the toothache. "What are ye doing back here?"

"To tell the truth, Dougal," was the answer, "I couldn't stay away.
I was fair miserable when I thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies
left to yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn't let me stop at home,
so here I am."

Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for from that moment he
treated Dickson with a new respect. Formerly when he had referred to
him at all it had been as "auld McCunn." Now it was "Mister McCunn."
He was given rank as a worthy civilian ally. The bivouac was a
cheerful place in the wet night. A great fire of pine roots and old
paling posts hissed in the fine rain, and around it crouched several
urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the embers. On one side a
respectable lean-to had been constructed by nailing a plank to two
fir-trees, running sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatching
the whole with spruce branches and heather. On the other side two
small dilapidated home-made tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his
companion into the lean-to, where they had some privacy from the
rest of the band.