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.