They may crack about their Industrial Workers and the braw things they’re going to do, but there’s a wholesome dampness about the tinder on Clydeside. They should try Ireland.” 

 “Supposing,” I said, “there was a really clever man who wanted to help the enemy. You think he could do little good by stirring up trouble in the shops here?” 

 “I’m positive.” 

 “And if he were a shrewd fellow, he’d soon tumble to that?” 

 “Ay.” 

 “Then if he still stayed on here he would be after bigger game—something really dangerous and damnable?” 

 Amos drew down his brows and looked me in the face. “I see what ye’re ettlin’ at. Ay! That would be my conclusion. I came to it weeks syne about the man ye’ll maybe meet the morn’s night.” 

 Then from below the bed he pulled a box from which he drew a handsome flute. “Ye’ll forgive me, Mr Brand, but I aye like a tune before I go to my bed. Macnab says his prayers, and I have a tune on the flute, and the principle is just the same.” 

 So that singular evening closed with music—very sweet and true renderings of old Border melodies like “My Peggy is a young thing”, and “When the kye come hame”. I fell asleep with a vision of Amos, his face all puckered up at the mouth and a wandering sentiment in his eye, recapturing in his dingy world the emotions of a boy. 

 The widow-woman from next door, who acted as house-keeper, cook, and general factotum to the establishment, brought me shaving water next morning, but I had to go without a bath. When I entered the kitchen I found no one there, but while I consumed the inevitable ham and egg, Amos arrived back for breakfast. He brought with him the morning’s paper. 

 “The Herald says there’s been a big battle at Eepers,” he announced. 

 I tore open the sheet and read of the great attack of 31 July which was spoiled by the weather. “My God!” I cried. “They’ve got St Julien and that dirty Frezenberg ridge ... and Hooge ... and Sanctuary Wood. I know every inch of the damned place....” 

 “Mr Brand,” said a warning voice, “that’ll never do. If our friends last night heard ye talk like that ye might as well tak the train back to London.... They’re speakin’ about ye in the yards this morning. 

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