into this business till I ken that ye'll help. It's a far bigger
job than I thought. There's more in it than Lean and Spittal.
There's the big man that keeps the public--Dobson, they ca' him.
He's a Namerican, which looks bad. And there's two-three tinklers
campin' down in the Garple Dean. They're in it, for Dobson was
colloguin' wi' them a' mornin'. When I seen ye, I thought ye were
more o' the gang, till I mindit that one o' ye was auld McCunn that
has the shop in Mearns Street. I seen that ye didna' like the look
o' Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin' I needit help."

Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

"For God's sake, boy," he cried, "tell us what you know!"

"Will ye help?"

"Of course, you little fool."

"Then swear," said the ritualist. From a grimy wallet he extracted
a limp little volume which proved to be a damaged copy of a work
entitled Sacred Songs and Solos. "Here! Take that in your right
hand and put your left hand on my pole, and say after me. 'I swear
no' to blab what is telled me in secret, and to be swift and sure in
obeyin' orders, s'help me God!' Syne kiss the bookie."

Dickson at first refused, declaring that it was all havers,
but Heritage's docility persuaded him to follow suit.
The two were sworn.

"Now," said Heritage.