hen a cauld shiver passes doon the dauntless spine o' the wee
hero. 'Tis a preemonition or warnin' o' peeril. He speers oop an' doon
absint-mindedly fingerin' the mechanism of his seelver-plated Lewis gun.
There was nawthing in sicht, nawthing to mar the glories of the morn.
'Can A' be mistaken?' asks Tam. 'Noo! A thoosand times noo!' an' wi'
these fatefu' wairds, he began his peerilous climb. Maircifu' Heavens!
What's yon? 'Tis the mad Muller! Sweeft as the eagle fa'ing upon his
prey, fa's MacMuller, a licht o' joy in his een, his bullets twangin'
like hairp-strings. But Tam the Tempest is no' bothered. Cal-lm an'
a'most majeestic in his sang-frow--a French expression--he leps gaily to
the fray--an' here A' am!"

"But, Tam," protested Galbraith, "that's a rotten story. What happened
after the lep--did you get up to him?"

"A' didna lep oop," said Tam gravely; "A' lep doon--it wis no' the time
to ficht--it wis the time to flee--an' A'm a fleein' mon."

That he would deliberately shrink an issue with his enemy was
unthinkable. And yet he rather avoided than sought Mueller after this
encounter.

* * * * *

One afternoon he came to Galbraith's quarters. Galbraith was rich and
young and a great sportsman.

"Can A' ha'e a waird wi' ye?" asked Tam mysteriously.

"Surely," said the boy. "Come in--you want a cigar, Tam!" he accused.

"Get awa' ahint me, Satan," said Tam piously. "A've gi'en oop cadgin'
seegairs an' A' beg ye no' tae tempit a puir weak body. Just puit the
box doon whair A' can reach it an' mebbe A'll help mesel' absintminded.
A' came--mon, this is a bonnie smawk! Ye maun pay an awfu' lot for
these. Twa sheelin's each! Ech! It's sinfu' wi' so many puir souls in
need--A'll tak' a few wi' me when A' go, to distreebute to the sufferin'
mechanics. Naw, it is na for seegairs A'm beggin', na this time--but
ha'e ye an auld suit o' claes ye'll no be wantin'?"

"A suit? Good Lord, yes, Tam," said Galbraith, jumping down from the
table on which he was seated. "Do you want it for yourself?"

"Well," replied Tam cautiously, "A' do an' A' doon't--it's for ma
frien', Fitzroy McGinty, the celebrated MacMuller mairderer."

Galbraith looked at him with laughter in his eyes.

"Fitzroy McGinty? And who the devil is Fitzroy McGinty?"

Tam cleared his throat

"Ma frien' Fitzroy McGinty is, like Tam, an oornament o' the Royal
Fleein' Coor. Oor hero was borr-rn in affluent saircumstances h