The wind had fallen for the time being, and the surge of the tides below the rocks rose like the clamour of a mob.

With the lull, mist and a thin drizzle had cloaked the world again.
To Dickson's surprise Dougal seemed to be in good spirits.

He began to sing to a hymn tune a strange ditty.
"Class-conscious we are, and class-conscious wull be Till our fit's on the neck o' the Boorjoyzee." "What on earth are you singing ?" Dickson inquired.
Dougal grinned.

"Wee Jaikie went to a Socialist Sunday School last winter because he heard they were for fechtin' battles.

Ay, and they telled him he was to join a thing called an International, and Jaikie thought it was a fitba' club.