No collocation of letters could reproduce Dougal's accent, and I
will not attempt it. There was a touch of Irish in it, a spice of
music-hall patter, as well as the odd lilt of the Glasgow vernacular.
He was strong in vowels, but the consonants, especially the letter
"t," were only aspirations.

"Sit down and let's hear about things," said Dickson.

The boy turned his head to the still open back door, where Mrs.
Morran could be heard at her labours. He stepped across and shut it.
"I'm no' wantin' that auld wife to hear," he said. Then he squatted
down on the patchwork rug by the hearth, and warmed his blue-black shins.
Looking into the glow of the fire, he observed, "I seen you two up by
the Big Hoose the night."

"The devil you did," said Heritage, roused to a sudden attention.
"And where were you?"

"Seven feet from your head, up a tree. It's my chief hidy-hole, and
Gosh! I need one, for Lean's after me wi' a gun. He had a shot at
me two days syne."

Dickson exclaimed, and Dougal with morose pride showed a rent in
his kilt. "If I had had on breeks, he'd ha' got me."

"Who's Lean?" Heritage asked.

"The man wi' the black coat. The other--the lame one--they ca' Spittal."

"How d'you know?"