CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVEOnthe fifth night, at the seventh page of words beginning with a “D,” Macgregor closed the dictionary and asked himself what was the good of it all. His face was hot, his whole being restless. He looked at his watch—a quarter to eight. He got up and carefully placed the dictionary under a copy of “Ivanhoe” on the chest of drawers. He would go for a walk.He left the house quietly.In the kitchen Lizzie, pausing in her knitting, said to John: “That’s Macgreegor awa’ oot.”“It’ll dae him nae harm,” said John. “He’s becomin’ a great reader, Lizzie.”“I dinna see why he canna read ben here. It’s cauld in his room. What’s he readin’?”“The book he got frae his Uncle Purdie three year back.”“Weel, I’m sure I’m gled if he’s takin’ an interest in it at last.”“Oh, ‘Ivanhoe’ ’s no’ a bad story,” remarked John. “Whiles it’s fair excitin’.”Said Jimsie from the hearthrug: “He doesna seem to enjoy it much, Paw.”“Weel, it’s no’ a funny book.”“It’s time ye was in yer bed, Jimsie,” said Mrs. Robinson. “It’s ower late for ye.”“Aw, the wean’s fine,” said John.Jeannie laid down her sewing. “Come on, Jimsie, an’ I’ll tell ye a wee story afore ye gang to sleep.”“Chaps ye!” Jimsie replied, getting up.When the two had gone, Lizzie observed casually: “It’s the first nicht Macgreegor’s been oot this week.”“Weel, ye should be pleased, wumman.” John smiled.A pause.“I wonder what made him gi’e up a’ his siller on Seturday nicht.”“Same here. But I wudna ask him,” said John, becoming grave. “Wud you?”She shook her head, “I tried to, on Sunday, but some way I coudna. He’s changin’.”“He’s growin’ up, Lizzie.”“I suppose ye’re richt,” she said reluctantly, and resumed her knitting.*  *  *  *  *From the darkest spot he could find on the opposite pavement Macgregor saw Christina come out of the shop, pass under a lamp, and disappear. He felt sorely depressed during the return journey. The dictionary had failed to increase either his knowledge or his self-esteem. He wondered whether History or Geography would do any good; there were books on these subjects in the house. He realised that he knew nothing about anything except his trade, and even there he had to admit that he had learned less than he might have done. And yet he had always wanted to be a painter.The same night he started reading the History of England, and found it a considerable improvement on the Dictionary. He managed to keep awake until the arrival of Julius Cæsar. Unfortunately he had taken the book to bed, and his mother on discovering it in the morning indiscreetly asked him what he had been doing with it. “Naething special,” was his reply, indistinctly uttered, and here ended his historical studies, though for days after Lizzie left the book prominent on the chest of drawers.*  *  *  *  *The day being Saturday, the afternoon was his own. Through the rain he made his way furtively to a free library, but became too self-conscious at the door, and fled. For the sum of threepence a picture house gave him harbourage, and save when the scenes were very exciting he spent the time in trying not to wonder what Christina would think of him, if she thought at all. He came forth ashamed and in nowise cheered by the entertainment.In the evening he went once more to watch her leave the shop. M. Tod came to the door with her, and they stood talking for a couple of minutes, so that he had more than a glimpse of her. And a spirit arose in him demanding that he should attempt something to prove himself, were it only with his hands. It was not learning, but earning, that would make him “guid enough yet”; not what he could say, but what he could do. There would be time enough for speaking “genteel English” and so on after—well, after he had got up in the world.For a moment he felt like running after Christina and making her hearken to his new hope, but self-consciousness prevailed and sent him homewards.“Hullo!” From a close came a husky voice, apologetic, appealing.“Hullo, Wullie!” Macgregor stopped. He was not sorry to meet Willie; he craved companionship just then, though he had no confidence to give.“Are ye for hame?”“Ay.”“I—I’ll come wi’ ye, if ye like, Macgreegor?”“Come on then.”Willie came out, and they proceeded along the street without remark until Macgregorenquired——“Where are ye workin’ the noo, Wullie?”“I’m no’ workin’. Canna get a job. Dae ye ken o’ onything?”“Na. What kin’ o’ job dae ye want?”“Onything,” said Willie, and added quickly, “An’ I’ll stick to it this time, if I get the chance.”After a short pause——“My fayther got ye a job before,” said Macgregor.“I ken. But I wudstick——”“Honest?”Willie drew his hand across his throat.“Weel,” said Macgregor, “I’ll tell ma fayther, an’ ye can gang an’ see him at the works on Monday.”“I’ll be there. Ye’re a dacent chap, Macgreegor.”Neither seemed to have anything more to say to the other, but their parting was cordial enough.Next day, Sunday, was wet and stormy, and there was no afternoon stroll of father and son to the docks. John was flattered by Macgregor’s ill-concealed disappointment—it was like old times. Perhaps he would not have been less flattered had he known his boy’s desire to tell him out of doors a thing that somehow could not be uttered in the house. Macgregor spent the afternoon in studying secretly an old price-list of Purdie’s Stores.The following night, while returning from the errand of previous nights, he again encountered Willie.“So may fayther’s gaun to gi’e ye a job. He tell’t me it was fixed.”“Ay,” said Willie, “but he canna tak’ me on for a fortnicht.”“Weel, that’s no lang to wait.”For a few seconds Willie was mute; then he blurted out—“I’m done for!”“Done for!” exclaimed Macgregor, startled by the despair in the other’s voice. “What’s wrang, Wullie?”“I’m in a mess. But it’s nae use tellin’ ye. Ye canna dae onything.”“Is’t horses?” Macgregor asked presently.“Naw, it’s no’ horses!” Willie indignantly replied.How virtuous we feel when accused of the one sin we have not committed!The next moment he clutched Macgregor’s arm. “Come in here, an’ I’ll tell ye.” He drew his companion into a close. “I—I couldna tell onybody else.”From the somewhat incoherent recital which followed Macgregor finally gathered that the old woman to whom Willie owed money had presented her ultimatum. If Willie failed to pay up that night she would assuredly not fail to apply to his aunt first thing in the morning.“Never heed, Wullie,” said Macgregor, taking his friend’s arm, and leading him homewards. “Yer aunt’ll no’ kill ye.”“I wish to——​she wud!” muttered Willie with a vehemence that shocked his friend. “She’s aye been ill to live wi’, but it’ll be a sight harder noo.”“Wud the auld wife no’ believe ye aboot gettin’ a job in a fortnicht? She wudna? Aweell, she’ll believe me. Come on, an’ I’ll speak to her for ye.”But the “auld wife” was adamant. She had been deceived with too many promises ere now. At last Macgregor, feeling himself beaten, disconsolately joined Willie and set out for home. Neither spoke until Macgregor’s abode was reached. Then Macgregor said:“Bide here till I come back,” and ran up the stair. He knew his father was out, having gone back to the works to experiment with some new machinery. He found his mother alone in the kitchen.“Mither,” he said with difficulty, “I wish ye wud gi’e me five shillin’s o’ ma money.”He could not have startled her more thoroughly.“Five shillin’s, laddie! What for?”“I canna tell ye the noo.”“But——”“It’s no’ for—for fun. If ye ask me, I’ll tell ye in a secret this day fortnicht. Please, mither.”She got up and laid her hands on his shoulder and turned him to the full light of the gas. He looked at her shyly, yet without flinching. And abruptly she kissed him, and as abruptly passed to the dresser drawer where she kept her purse.Without a word she put the money in his hand. Without a word he took it, nodded gravely, and went out. In one way Lizzie had done more for her boy in these three minutes than she had done in the last three years.Macgregor had a sixpence in his pocket, and he added it to the larger coins.“She can wait for her thruppence,” he said, giving the money to the astounded Willie. “Awa’ an’ pay her. I’ll maybe see ye the morn’s nicht. So long!” He walked off in the direction opposite to that which Willie ought to take.But Willie ran after him; he was pretty nearly crying. “Macgreegor,” he stammered, “I’ll pay ye back when I get ma first wages. An’ I’ll no’ forget—oh, I’ll never forget. An’ I’ll dae ye a guid turn yet!”“Ye best hurry in case she shuts her shop,” said Macgregor, and so got rid of him.While it is disappointing to record that Willie has thus far never managed to repay Macgregor in hard cash, though he has somehow succeeded in retaining the employment found for him by John, it is comforting to know that his promise to do Macgregor a good turn was more than just an emotional utterance. When, on the following Wednesday and Friday nights, he stealthily tracked Macgregor to the now familiar watching place, his motives were no longer curious or selfish, but benevolent in the extreme. Not that he could bring himself to sympathise with Macgregor in the latter’s devotion to a mere girl, for, as a matter of fact, he regarded his friend’s behaviour as “awfu’ stupid”; but if Macgregor was really “saft” on the girl, it behoved him, Willie, to do what he could to put an end to the existing misunderstanding.On the Friday night he came regretfully to the conclusion that the “saftness” was incurable, and he accordingly determined to act on the following afternoon. By this time his knowledge of the movements of M. Tod and her assistant was practically as complete as Macgregor’s, so that he had no hesitation in choosing the hour for action. He had little fear of Macgregor’s coming near the shop in daylight.So, having witnessed the exit of M. Tod, he crossed the street, and examined the contents of the window, as he had seen Macgregor do so often. He was not in the least nervous. The fact that he was without money did not perturb him: it would be the simplest thing in the world to introduce himself and his business by asking for an article which stationers’ shops did not supply. A glance at a druggist’s window had given him the necessary suggestion.On entering he was seized with a most distressing cough, which racked him while he closed the door and until he reached the counter.“A cold afternoon,” Christina remarked in a sympathetic tone.“Ay. Ha’e ye ony chest protectors?” he hoarsely enquired.For the fraction of a second only she hesitated. “Not exactly,” she replied. “But I can recommend this.” From under the counter she brought a quire of brown paper. “It’s cheaper than flannel and much more sanitary,” she went on. “There’s nothing like it for keeping out the cold. You’ve only got to cut out the shape that suits you.” She separated a sheet from the quire and spread it on the counter. “Enough there for a dozen protectors. Price one penny. I’ll cut them out for you, if you like.”“The doctor said I was to get a flannel yin,” said Willie, forgetting his hoarseness. “Ha’e ye ony nice ceegarettes the day, miss?”“No.”“Will ye ha’e ony on Monday?”“No.”“When d’ye think ye’ll ha’e some nice ceegarettes?”Christina’s eyes smiled. “Perhaps,” she said solemnly, “by the time you’re big enough to smoke them. Anything else to-day?”“Ye’re no’ sae green,” he said, with grudging admiration.“No,” said she; “it’s only the reflection.” She opened the glass case and took out an infant’s rattle. “Threepence!”Willie laughed. “My! ye’re a comic!” he exclaimed.“Children are easily amused.”There was a short pause. Then Willie, leaning his arms on the edge of the counter, looked up in her face and said:“So you’re the girl that’s mashed on Macgreegor Robi’son.” He grinned.A breath of silence—a sounding smack.Willie sprang back, his hand to his cheek. Christina, cheeks flaming, eyes glistening, teeth gleaming, hands clenched, drew herself up and faced him.“Get oot o’ this!” she cried. “D’ye hear me! Getoot——”“Ay, I hear ye,” said Willie resentfully, rubbing his cheek. “Ye’re ower smart wi’ yer han’s. I meant for tosay——”“Be quiet!”“—you’re the girl Macgreegor’s mashed on—an’I——”Christina stamped her foot. “Clear oot, I tell ye!”“—I wudna be Macgreegor for a thoosan’ pounds! Keep yer hair on, miss. I’ll gang when it suits me. Ye’ve got tohear——”“I’ll no’ listen.” She put her hands to her ears.“Thon girl, Jessie Mary, took a rise oot o’ ye last week, an’ it was me that put her up to it. Macgreegor gi’ed her the belt, richt enough, but that was afore he got saft onyou——”“Silence! I cannot hear a word you say,” declared Christina, recovering herself and her more formal speech, though her colour, which had faded, now bloomed again.“I’ll cry it loud, if ye like, so as the folk in the street can hear. But ye can pretend ye dinna hear,” he said ironically. “I’m no’ heedin’ whether ye hear or no’.”“I wish you would go away, you impertinent thing!”“Macgreegor——” he began.Once more she covered her ears.“Macgreegor,” proceeded Willie, with a rude wink, “never had ony notion o’ takin’ Jessie Mary to the dance. She was jist coddin’ ye, though I daursay she was kin’ o’ jealous because ye had cut her oot. So I think ye should mak’ it up wi’ Macgreegor when ye get the chance. He’s awfu’ saft on ye. I wudna be him fora——”“Go away!” said Christina. “You’re simply wasting your breath.”“Dinna let on to Macgreegor that I tell’t ye,” he continued, unmoved, “an’,if Jessie Mary tries it on again, jist you put yer finger to yer nose at her.”“If you don’t go at once, I’ll——”“Oh, ye canna dae onything, miss. I’ll forgi’e ye for that scud ye gi’ed me, but I wud advise ye no’ to be so quick wi’ yer han’s in future, or ye’ll maybe get into trouble.” He turned towards the door. “I daursay ye ken fine that Macgreegor watches ye leavin’ the shop everynicht——”“Whatareyou talking about?”“Gi’e him a whistle or a wave the next time. There’s nae use in bein’ huffy.”“That’s enough!”Willie opened the door. “An’ ye best hurry up, or ye’ll maybe loss him. So long. I’ll no’ tell him I seen ye blushin’.”Christina opened her mouth, but ere she could speak, with a grin and a wink he was gone. She collapsed upon the stool. She had never been so angry in her life—at least, so she told herself.

Onthe fifth night, at the seventh page of words beginning with a “D,” Macgregor closed the dictionary and asked himself what was the good of it all. His face was hot, his whole being restless. He looked at his watch—a quarter to eight. He got up and carefully placed the dictionary under a copy of “Ivanhoe” on the chest of drawers. He would go for a walk.

He left the house quietly.

In the kitchen Lizzie, pausing in her knitting, said to John: “That’s Macgreegor awa’ oot.”

“It’ll dae him nae harm,” said John. “He’s becomin’ a great reader, Lizzie.”

“I dinna see why he canna read ben here. It’s cauld in his room. What’s he readin’?”

“The book he got frae his Uncle Purdie three year back.”

“Weel, I’m sure I’m gled if he’s takin’ an interest in it at last.”

“Oh, ‘Ivanhoe’ ’s no’ a bad story,” remarked John. “Whiles it’s fair excitin’.”

Said Jimsie from the hearthrug: “He doesna seem to enjoy it much, Paw.”

“Weel, it’s no’ a funny book.”

“It’s time ye was in yer bed, Jimsie,” said Mrs. Robinson. “It’s ower late for ye.”

“Aw, the wean’s fine,” said John.

Jeannie laid down her sewing. “Come on, Jimsie, an’ I’ll tell ye a wee story afore ye gang to sleep.”

“Chaps ye!” Jimsie replied, getting up.

When the two had gone, Lizzie observed casually: “It’s the first nicht Macgreegor’s been oot this week.”

“Weel, ye should be pleased, wumman.” John smiled.

A pause.

“I wonder what made him gi’e up a’ his siller on Seturday nicht.”

“Same here. But I wudna ask him,” said John, becoming grave. “Wud you?”

She shook her head, “I tried to, on Sunday, but some way I coudna. He’s changin’.”

“He’s growin’ up, Lizzie.”

“I suppose ye’re richt,” she said reluctantly, and resumed her knitting.

*  *  *  *  *

From the darkest spot he could find on the opposite pavement Macgregor saw Christina come out of the shop, pass under a lamp, and disappear. He felt sorely depressed during the return journey. The dictionary had failed to increase either his knowledge or his self-esteem. He wondered whether History or Geography would do any good; there were books on these subjects in the house. He realised that he knew nothing about anything except his trade, and even there he had to admit that he had learned less than he might have done. And yet he had always wanted to be a painter.

The same night he started reading the History of England, and found it a considerable improvement on the Dictionary. He managed to keep awake until the arrival of Julius Cæsar. Unfortunately he had taken the book to bed, and his mother on discovering it in the morning indiscreetly asked him what he had been doing with it. “Naething special,” was his reply, indistinctly uttered, and here ended his historical studies, though for days after Lizzie left the book prominent on the chest of drawers.

*  *  *  *  *

The day being Saturday, the afternoon was his own. Through the rain he made his way furtively to a free library, but became too self-conscious at the door, and fled. For the sum of threepence a picture house gave him harbourage, and save when the scenes were very exciting he spent the time in trying not to wonder what Christina would think of him, if she thought at all. He came forth ashamed and in nowise cheered by the entertainment.

In the evening he went once more to watch her leave the shop. M. Tod came to the door with her, and they stood talking for a couple of minutes, so that he had more than a glimpse of her. And a spirit arose in him demanding that he should attempt something to prove himself, were it only with his hands. It was not learning, but earning, that would make him “guid enough yet”; not what he could say, but what he could do. There would be time enough for speaking “genteel English” and so on after—well, after he had got up in the world.

For a moment he felt like running after Christina and making her hearken to his new hope, but self-consciousness prevailed and sent him homewards.

“Hullo!” From a close came a husky voice, apologetic, appealing.

“Hullo, Wullie!” Macgregor stopped. He was not sorry to meet Willie; he craved companionship just then, though he had no confidence to give.

“Are ye for hame?”

“Ay.”

“I—I’ll come wi’ ye, if ye like, Macgreegor?”

“Come on then.”

Willie came out, and they proceeded along the street without remark until Macgregorenquired——

“Where are ye workin’ the noo, Wullie?”

“I’m no’ workin’. Canna get a job. Dae ye ken o’ onything?”

“Na. What kin’ o’ job dae ye want?”

“Onything,” said Willie, and added quickly, “An’ I’ll stick to it this time, if I get the chance.”

After a short pause——“My fayther got ye a job before,” said Macgregor.

“I ken. But I wudstick——”

“Honest?”

Willie drew his hand across his throat.

“Weel,” said Macgregor, “I’ll tell ma fayther, an’ ye can gang an’ see him at the works on Monday.”

“I’ll be there. Ye’re a dacent chap, Macgreegor.”

Neither seemed to have anything more to say to the other, but their parting was cordial enough.

Next day, Sunday, was wet and stormy, and there was no afternoon stroll of father and son to the docks. John was flattered by Macgregor’s ill-concealed disappointment—it was like old times. Perhaps he would not have been less flattered had he known his boy’s desire to tell him out of doors a thing that somehow could not be uttered in the house. Macgregor spent the afternoon in studying secretly an old price-list of Purdie’s Stores.

The following night, while returning from the errand of previous nights, he again encountered Willie.

“So may fayther’s gaun to gi’e ye a job. He tell’t me it was fixed.”

“Ay,” said Willie, “but he canna tak’ me on for a fortnicht.”

“Weel, that’s no lang to wait.”

For a few seconds Willie was mute; then he blurted out—“I’m done for!”

“Done for!” exclaimed Macgregor, startled by the despair in the other’s voice. “What’s wrang, Wullie?”

“I’m in a mess. But it’s nae use tellin’ ye. Ye canna dae onything.”

“Is’t horses?” Macgregor asked presently.

“Naw, it’s no’ horses!” Willie indignantly replied.

How virtuous we feel when accused of the one sin we have not committed!

The next moment he clutched Macgregor’s arm. “Come in here, an’ I’ll tell ye.” He drew his companion into a close. “I—I couldna tell onybody else.”

From the somewhat incoherent recital which followed Macgregor finally gathered that the old woman to whom Willie owed money had presented her ultimatum. If Willie failed to pay up that night she would assuredly not fail to apply to his aunt first thing in the morning.

“Never heed, Wullie,” said Macgregor, taking his friend’s arm, and leading him homewards. “Yer aunt’ll no’ kill ye.”

“I wish to——​she wud!” muttered Willie with a vehemence that shocked his friend. “She’s aye been ill to live wi’, but it’ll be a sight harder noo.”

“Wud the auld wife no’ believe ye aboot gettin’ a job in a fortnicht? She wudna? Aweell, she’ll believe me. Come on, an’ I’ll speak to her for ye.”

But the “auld wife” was adamant. She had been deceived with too many promises ere now. At last Macgregor, feeling himself beaten, disconsolately joined Willie and set out for home. Neither spoke until Macgregor’s abode was reached. Then Macgregor said:

“Bide here till I come back,” and ran up the stair. He knew his father was out, having gone back to the works to experiment with some new machinery. He found his mother alone in the kitchen.

“Mither,” he said with difficulty, “I wish ye wud gi’e me five shillin’s o’ ma money.”

He could not have startled her more thoroughly.

“Five shillin’s, laddie! What for?”

“I canna tell ye the noo.”

“But——”

“It’s no’ for—for fun. If ye ask me, I’ll tell ye in a secret this day fortnicht. Please, mither.”

She got up and laid her hands on his shoulder and turned him to the full light of the gas. He looked at her shyly, yet without flinching. And abruptly she kissed him, and as abruptly passed to the dresser drawer where she kept her purse.

Without a word she put the money in his hand. Without a word he took it, nodded gravely, and went out. In one way Lizzie had done more for her boy in these three minutes than she had done in the last three years.

Macgregor had a sixpence in his pocket, and he added it to the larger coins.

“She can wait for her thruppence,” he said, giving the money to the astounded Willie. “Awa’ an’ pay her. I’ll maybe see ye the morn’s nicht. So long!” He walked off in the direction opposite to that which Willie ought to take.

But Willie ran after him; he was pretty nearly crying. “Macgreegor,” he stammered, “I’ll pay ye back when I get ma first wages. An’ I’ll no’ forget—oh, I’ll never forget. An’ I’ll dae ye a guid turn yet!”

“Ye best hurry in case she shuts her shop,” said Macgregor, and so got rid of him.

While it is disappointing to record that Willie has thus far never managed to repay Macgregor in hard cash, though he has somehow succeeded in retaining the employment found for him by John, it is comforting to know that his promise to do Macgregor a good turn was more than just an emotional utterance. When, on the following Wednesday and Friday nights, he stealthily tracked Macgregor to the now familiar watching place, his motives were no longer curious or selfish, but benevolent in the extreme. Not that he could bring himself to sympathise with Macgregor in the latter’s devotion to a mere girl, for, as a matter of fact, he regarded his friend’s behaviour as “awfu’ stupid”; but if Macgregor was really “saft” on the girl, it behoved him, Willie, to do what he could to put an end to the existing misunderstanding.

On the Friday night he came regretfully to the conclusion that the “saftness” was incurable, and he accordingly determined to act on the following afternoon. By this time his knowledge of the movements of M. Tod and her assistant was practically as complete as Macgregor’s, so that he had no hesitation in choosing the hour for action. He had little fear of Macgregor’s coming near the shop in daylight.

So, having witnessed the exit of M. Tod, he crossed the street, and examined the contents of the window, as he had seen Macgregor do so often. He was not in the least nervous. The fact that he was without money did not perturb him: it would be the simplest thing in the world to introduce himself and his business by asking for an article which stationers’ shops did not supply. A glance at a druggist’s window had given him the necessary suggestion.

On entering he was seized with a most distressing cough, which racked him while he closed the door and until he reached the counter.

“A cold afternoon,” Christina remarked in a sympathetic tone.

“Ay. Ha’e ye ony chest protectors?” he hoarsely enquired.

For the fraction of a second only she hesitated. “Not exactly,” she replied. “But I can recommend this.” From under the counter she brought a quire of brown paper. “It’s cheaper than flannel and much more sanitary,” she went on. “There’s nothing like it for keeping out the cold. You’ve only got to cut out the shape that suits you.” She separated a sheet from the quire and spread it on the counter. “Enough there for a dozen protectors. Price one penny. I’ll cut them out for you, if you like.”

“The doctor said I was to get a flannel yin,” said Willie, forgetting his hoarseness. “Ha’e ye ony nice ceegarettes the day, miss?”

“No.”

“Will ye ha’e ony on Monday?”

“No.”

“When d’ye think ye’ll ha’e some nice ceegarettes?”

Christina’s eyes smiled. “Perhaps,” she said solemnly, “by the time you’re big enough to smoke them. Anything else to-day?”

“Ye’re no’ sae green,” he said, with grudging admiration.

“No,” said she; “it’s only the reflection.” She opened the glass case and took out an infant’s rattle. “Threepence!”

Willie laughed. “My! ye’re a comic!” he exclaimed.

“Children are easily amused.”

There was a short pause. Then Willie, leaning his arms on the edge of the counter, looked up in her face and said:

“So you’re the girl that’s mashed on Macgreegor Robi’son.” He grinned.

A breath of silence—a sounding smack.

Willie sprang back, his hand to his cheek. Christina, cheeks flaming, eyes glistening, teeth gleaming, hands clenched, drew herself up and faced him.

“Get oot o’ this!” she cried. “D’ye hear me! Getoot——”

“Ay, I hear ye,” said Willie resentfully, rubbing his cheek. “Ye’re ower smart wi’ yer han’s. I meant for tosay——”

“Be quiet!”

“—you’re the girl Macgreegor’s mashed on—an’I——”

Christina stamped her foot. “Clear oot, I tell ye!”

“—I wudna be Macgreegor for a thoosan’ pounds! Keep yer hair on, miss. I’ll gang when it suits me. Ye’ve got tohear——”

“I’ll no’ listen.” She put her hands to her ears.

“Thon girl, Jessie Mary, took a rise oot o’ ye last week, an’ it was me that put her up to it. Macgreegor gi’ed her the belt, richt enough, but that was afore he got saft onyou——”

“Silence! I cannot hear a word you say,” declared Christina, recovering herself and her more formal speech, though her colour, which had faded, now bloomed again.

“I’ll cry it loud, if ye like, so as the folk in the street can hear. But ye can pretend ye dinna hear,” he said ironically. “I’m no’ heedin’ whether ye hear or no’.”

“I wish you would go away, you impertinent thing!”

“Macgreegor——” he began.

Once more she covered her ears.

“Macgreegor,” proceeded Willie, with a rude wink, “never had ony notion o’ takin’ Jessie Mary to the dance. She was jist coddin’ ye, though I daursay she was kin’ o’ jealous because ye had cut her oot. So I think ye should mak’ it up wi’ Macgreegor when ye get the chance. He’s awfu’ saft on ye. I wudna be him fora——”

“Go away!” said Christina. “You’re simply wasting your breath.”

“Dinna let on to Macgreegor that I tell’t ye,” he continued, unmoved, “an’,if Jessie Mary tries it on again, jist you put yer finger to yer nose at her.”

“If you don’t go at once, I’ll——”

“Oh, ye canna dae onything, miss. I’ll forgi’e ye for that scud ye gi’ed me, but I wud advise ye no’ to be so quick wi’ yer han’s in future, or ye’ll maybe get into trouble.” He turned towards the door. “I daursay ye ken fine that Macgreegor watches ye leavin’ the shop everynicht——”

“Whatareyou talking about?”

“Gi’e him a whistle or a wave the next time. There’s nae use in bein’ huffy.”

“That’s enough!”

Willie opened the door. “An’ ye best hurry up, or ye’ll maybe loss him. So long. I’ll no’ tell him I seen ye blushin’.”

Christina opened her mouth, but ere she could speak, with a grin and a wink he was gone. She collapsed upon the stool. She had never been so angry in her life—at least, so she told herself.

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