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Updated: June 1, 2025
But we've got to make sure of one thing, that no one lays hands on the Princess so long as there's one of us left alive to hit out." "Ye needn't be feared for that," said Dougal. There was no light in the room, but Dickson was certain that the morose face of the Chieftain was lit with unholy joy. "Then off with you. Mr. McCunn and I will explain matters to the ladies."
Just put them away as they are, and write me a receipt for them. Write it now." Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand. "What'll I call them?" he asked. "Just the three leather parcels handed to you by Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date." Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his client.
"Report to the Chief that there's a man here, name o' McCunn, seekin' for him." Presently the messenger returned with Dougal and a cheap lantern which he flashed in Dickson's face. "Oh, it's you," said that leader, who had his jaw bound up as if he had the toothache. "What are ye doing back here?" "To tell the truth, Dougal," was the answer, "I couldn't stay away.
But probably he's a bank-clerk from Melbourne.... Your romanticism is one vast self-delusion, and it blinds your eye to the real thing. We have got to clear it out, and with it all the damnable humbug of the Kelt." Mr. McCunn, who spelt the word with a soft "C," was puzzled. "I thought a kelt was a kind of a no-weel fish," he interposed.
And the Londoner had cordially assented. So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards. "I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow. A little country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor little souls."
This was a new view to Mr. McCunn. "I just once knew a paper-maker," he observed reflectively, "They called him Tosh. He drank a bit." "Well, I don't drink," said the other. "I'm a paper-maker, but that's for my bread and butter. Some day for my own sake I may be a poet." "Have you published anything?" The eager admiration in Dickson's tone gratified Mr. Heritage.
The poet had loosened all his placid idols, so that they shook and rattled in the niches where they had been erstwhile so secure. Mr. McCunn had a mind of a singular candour, and was prepared most honestly at all times to revise his views. But by this iconoclast he had been only irritated and in no way convinced. "And yon blethers about the working-man!" he ingeminated as he shaved.
We needn't imitate all their methods they're a trifle crude and have too many Jews among them but they've got hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth and reality." Mr. McCunn was slowly being roused. "What brings you wandering hereaways?" he asked. "Exercise," was the answer. "I've been kept pretty closely tied up all winter. And I want leisure and quiet to think over things."
McCunn had witnessed their pathetic parades, and had even passed the time of day with their leader, a red-haired savage called Dougal. The philanthropic Mackintosh had taken an interest in the gang and now desired subscriptions to send them to camp in the country. Mr. McCunn, in his new exhilaration, felt that he could not deny to others what he proposed for himself.
He warmed to the bagman, insisted on giving him a liqueur and a cigar, and finally revealed himself. "I'm Dickson McCunn," he said, "taking a bit holiday. If there's anything I can do for you when I get back, just let me know." With mutual esteem they parted. He had need of all his good spirits, for he emerged into an unrelenting drizzle.
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