what was meant to be a kilt--a kilt of home manufacture, which may
once have been a tablecloth, for its bold pattern suggested no known
clan tartan. He had a massive belt, in which was stuck a broken
gully-knife, and round his neck was knotted the remnant of what had
once been a silk bandanna. His legs and feet were bare, blue,
scratched, and very dirty, and this toes had the prehensile look
common to monkeys and small boys who summer and winter go bootless.
In his hand was a long ash-pole, new cut from some coppice.

The apparition stood glum and lowering on the kitchen floor.
As Dickson stared at it he recalled Mearns Street and the band of
irregular Boy Scouts who paraded to the roll of tin cans.
Before him stood Dougal, Chieftain of the Gorbals Die-Hards.
Suddenly he remembered the philanthropic Mackintosh, and his own
subscription of ten pounds to the camp fund. It pleased him to find
the rascals here, for in the unpleasant affairs on the verge of
which he felt himself they were a comforting reminder of the
peace of home.

"I'm glad to see you, Dougal," he said pleasantly. "How are you
all getting on?" And then, with a vague reminiscence of the Scouts'
code--"Have you been minding to perform a good deed every day?"

The Chieftain's brow darkened.

"'Good Deeds!'" he repeated bitterly. "I tell ye I'm fair wore out
wi' good deeds. Yon man Mackintosh tell't me this was going to be
a grand holiday. Holiday! Govey Dick! It's been like a Setterday
night in Main Street--a' fechtin', fechtin'."