As it chanced he had been talking about him that very morning to a gentleman from London.

"The strength of this city," he had said, tapping his eyeglasses on his knuckles, "does not lie in its dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two homely folk who make no parade of wealth.
Men like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half a million." 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." "Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection of Dougal as he had last seen him.

Somehow he did not think that peace was likely to be the portion of that devoted band.