At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by that certainty of
instinct which is independent of proof, like the man who prays for
a sign and has his prayer answered. He observed that the boy was
quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position for an instant with
red-rimmed eyes and then unclasped a knife, feeling the edge of the
blade on his thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second later
Dickson's wrists were free. Then he sawed at the legs, and cut the
shackles which tied them together, and then--most circumspectly--
assaulted the cord which bound Dickson's neck to the trunk.
There now remained only the two bonds which fastened the legs
and the body to the tree.

There was a sound in the wood different from the wind and stream.
Jaikie listened like a startled hind.

"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you bide where ye are and
let on ye're still tied up."

He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as a rat, while
two of the tinklers came up the slope from the waterside.
Dickson in a fever of impatience cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his
remaining bonds so that he could at least have made a dash for freedom.
And then he realized that the boy had been right. Feeble and cramped
as he was, he would have stood no chance in a race.

One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky. He had been running
hard, and was mopping his brow.

"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin' anchor ayont
the Dookits whaur there's a bield frae the wund and deep water.