"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 got 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?"
"I've listened to them crackin' thegither."
"But what for did the man want to shoot at you?" asked the scandalised Dickson.
"What for? Because they're frightened to death o' onybody going near their auld Hoose. They're a pair of deevils, worse nor any Red Indian, but for a' that they're sweatin' wi' fright. What for? says you. Because they're hidin' a Secret. I knew it as soon as I seen the man Lean's face. I once seen the same kind o' scoondrel at the Picters. When he opened his mouth to swear, I kenned he was a foreigner, like the lads down at the Broomielaw. That looked black, but I hadn't got at the worst of it. Then he loosed off at me wi' his gun."
"Were you not feared?" said Dickson.