Dougal scowled at the old umbrella in his hand. He chucked it into the junk pile. This was turning out to be the worst summer holiday ever. Okay, he was sorry Nan had a sore back. But why did big-mouthed sister Sarah have to say that she and Dougal would do some work round the place? He was meant to be on holiday! He'd ended up with the yucky job of clearing junk out of the cupboard under the stairs, where he had found an old suitcase with leather corners and cracked straps and rusty buckles. Inside was a small bundle of tartan cloth tucked into one corner. The tartan material heaved. Dougal watched in fascinated horror as it unwrapped itself. A small hairy figure crawled out. He was wearing a brown homespun shirt over a ragged tartan kilt and a bedraggled sporran. His bright red hair bristled wildly. So did his beard. 'Can you fetch Samuel for me, laddie?' I am definitely dreaming, Dougal thought.