Dickson was about to protest that he had no intention of
reconnoitring, when a hubbub arose in the back kitchen.
Mrs. Morran's voice was heard in shrill protest.

"Ye ill laddie! Eh--ye--ill--laddie! (crescendo) Makin' a hash o'
my back door wi' your dirty feet! What are ye slinkin' roond here
for, when I tell't ye this mornin' that I wad sell ye nae mair
scones till ye paid for the last lot? Ye're a wheen thievin' hungry
callants, and if there were a polisman in the place I'd gie ye
in chairge....What's that ye say? Ye're no' wantin' meat? Ye want
to speak to the gentlemen that's bidin' here? Ye ken the auld ane,
says you? I believe it's a muckle lee, but there's the gentlemen to
answer ye theirsels."

Mrs. Morran, brandishing a dishclout dramatically, flung open
the door, and with a vigorous push propelled into the kitchen a
singular figure.

It was a stunted boy, who from his face might have been fifteen
years old, but had the stature of a child of twelve. He had a
thatch of fiery red hair above a pale freckled countenance.
His nose was snub, his eyes a sulky grey-green, and his wide mouth
disclosed large and damaged teeth. But remarkable as was his
visage, his clothing was still stranger. On his head was the
regulation Boy Scout hat, but it was several sizes too big, and was
squashed down upon his immense red ears. He wore a very ancient
khaki shirt, which had once belonged to a full-grown soldier, and
the spacious sleeves were rolled up at the shoulders and tied with
string, revealing a pair of skinny arms. Round his middle hung