Dougal sniffed the air and looked seaward.
"It's coming on to rain," he observed.

"There should be a muckle star there, and when you can't see it it means wet weather wi' this wind." "What star ?" Dickson asked.
"The one wi' the Irish-lukkin' name.

What's that they call it?
O'Brien ?" And he pointed to where the constellation of the hunter should have been declining on the western horizon.
There was a bend of the road behind them, and suddenly round it came a dogcart driven rapidly.

Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush, and presently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp.

The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver called out to him.