Chapter 2

'Order! Remember, I'm still at the receipt o' custom--three bawbees since seeven o'clock.'

'I hope ye'll like it,' he said, reluctantly withdrawing his hand empty. 'Miss Tod canna hear us, can she?'

'Ye never can tell what a spinster'll hear when she's interested. At present she's nourishin' hersel' on tea--her nineteenth cup for the day; but she'll be comin' shortly to embrace ye an' shut the shop. I micht as weel get on ma hat. . . . An' 'what did yer parents say to ye?'

'They said ye was an awfu' nice, clever, bonny, handsome lassie----'

'Tit, tit! Aboot the enlistin', I meant. But I'll no ask ye that. They wud be prood, onyway.'

'Ma uncle's raised ma wages, an' they're to be payed a' the time I'm awa'.'

'Shakespeare! That's a proper uncle to ha'e! But dinna be tempted to stop awa' till ye're a millionaire. Oh, here's Miss Tod. Keep calm. She'll no bite ye.'

The little elderly woman who entered had made the acquaintance of Macgregor in his early courting days, especially during the period wherein he had squandered his substance in purchases of innumerable and unnecessary lead pencils, etcetera, doubtless with a view to acquiring merit in her eyes as well as in her assistant's.

She now proceeded to hold his hand, patting it tenderly, while she murmured 'brave lad' over and over again, to his exquisite embarrassment.

'But ye'll bate the nesty Rooshians, dearie--I meant for to say the Prooshians, Christina--an' ye'll come marchin' hame a conductor or an inspector, or whatever they ca' it, wi' medals on yer breist an' riches in yer purse----'

'An' rings on his fingers an' bells----'

'Noo, noo, lassie, ye're no to mak' fun o' me! Whaur's his case?'

Christina handed her an aluminium cigarette case--the best in the shop--and she presented it to Macgregor, saying: 'Ye're no to gang an' hurt yer health wi' smokin'; but when ye tak' a ceegarette, ye'll maybe gi'e a thocht to an auld body that'll be rememberin' ye, baith mornin' an' nicht.'

'If he smokes his usual, he'll be thinkin' o' ye every twinty meenutes,' remarked the girl, and drawing on her gloves, she came round to the door in order to close an interview which threatened to become lugubrious for all parties.

* * * * *

'Everybody's terrible kind,' Macgregor observed, when he found himself alone with Christina on the pavement. 'Will ye look at the ring noo?'

She shook her head and stepped out briskly.

After a little while he revived. 'I hope ye'll like it, Christina. It's got pearls on it. I hope it'll fit ye.' A long pause. 'I wish ye wud say something.'

'What'll I say?'

'Onything. I never heard ye dumb afore.'

'Maybe I'm reformin'.'

'Christina!'

'That's ma name, but ye needna tell everybody.'

'Dinna tease. We--we ha'e awfu' little time. Tak' aff yer glove an' try the ring. Naebody'll notice. Ye can look at it later on.'

'I'm no in the habit o' acceptin' rings frae young men.'

'But--but we're engaged.'

'That's news, but I doobt it's no official.'

'At least we're near engaged. Say we are, Christina.'

'This is most embarrassing, Mr. Robinson.'

'Aw, Christina!' said the boy, helplessly.

She let him remain in silent suspense for several minutes, until, in fact, they turned into the quiet street of her abode. Then she casually remarked:

'Ma han's gettin' cauld wantin' its glove, Mac.'

He seized it joyfully and endeavoured to put the ring on. 'It's ower wee!' he cried, aghast.

'That's ma middle finger.'

It fitted nicely. Triumphantly he exclaimed: '_Noo_ we're engaged!'

She had no rejoinder ready.

'Ye can tak' ma arm, if ye like,' he said presently, just a little too confidently.

'I dinna feel in danger o' collapsin' at present,' she replied, regarding the ring under the lamp they were passing. 'Ye're an extravagant thing!' she went on. 'I hope ye got it on appro.'

'What--dae ye no like it?'

'I like the feel o' it,' she admitted softly, 'an' it's real bonny; but ye--ye shouldna ha'e done it, Mac.' She made as if to remove the ring.

He caught her hand. 'But we're engaged!'

'Ye're ower sure o' that,' she said a trifle sharply.

He stared at her.

'Firstly, I never said I wud tak' the ring for keeps,' she proceeded. 'Secondly, ye ha'ena seen ma uncle yet----'

'I'm no feart for him--if ye back me up. Him an' yer aunt'll dae onything ye like.'

'Thirdly, ye ha'e never. . . .' She broke off as they reached the close leading to her home.

'What ha'e I no done, Christina?'

'Never heed. . . . Leave go ma finger.'

'Will ye keep the ring?'

'Hoo can I keep the ring when ye ha'e never. . .' Again the sentence was not completed. She freed her hand and stepped within the close.

'Tell me, an' I'll dae it, Christina,' he cried.

She shook her head, smiling rather ruefully.

'Tell me,' he pleaded.

'I canna--an' maybe ye wouldna like me ony better if I could.' She took off the ring and with a wistful glance at it offered it to him.

He took it, and before she knew, it was on her finger again.

'Ye've jist got to keep it!' he said, desperately. 'An' Christina, I--I'm gaun to kiss ye!'

'Oh, mercy!'

But he had none. . . .

'Are we engaged or no?' he whispered at last.

'Let me get ma breath.'

'Hurry up!'

She laughed, though her eyes were wet. 'Oh, dear,' she murmured, 'I never thought I wud get engaged wi'oot a--a . . .'

'A what?'

Suddenly she leaned forward and touched his cheek. 'Dinna fash yersel', Mac. Bein' in war-time, I suppose the best o' us has got to dae wi'oot some luxury or ither--sich as a proper High-Class Proposal.'

V

IN UNIFORM

There happened to be a little delay in providing the later batches of recruits with the garb proper to their battalion, and it was the Monday of their third week in training when Privates Robinson--otherwise Macgregor--and Thomson saw themselves for the first time in the glory of the kilt. Their dismay would doubtless have been overwhelming had they been alone in that glory; even with numerous comrades in similar distress they displayed much awkwardness and self-consciousness. During drill Willie received several cautions against standing in a semi-sitting attitude, and Macgregor, in his anxiety to avoid his friend's error, made himself ridiculous by standing on his toes, with outstretched neck and fixed, unhappy stare.

As if to intensify the situation, the leave for which they had applied a few days previously was unexpectedly granted for that evening. Before he realized what he was saying, Macgregor had inquired whether he might go without his kilt. Perhaps he was not the first recruit to put it that way. Anyway, the reply was a curt 'I don't think.'

'I believe ye're ashamed o' the uniform,' said Willie, disagreeable under his own disappointment at the verdict.

'Say it again!' snapped Macgregor.

Willie ignored the invitation, and swore by the great god Jings that he would assuredly wear breeks unless something happened. The only thing that may be said to have happened was that he did not wear breeks.

As a matter of fact, Macgregor, with his sturdy figure, carried his kilt rather well. The lanky William, however, gave the impression that he was growing out of it perceptibly, yet inevitably.

Four o'clock saw them started on their way, and with every step from the camp, which now seemed a lost refuge, their kilts felt shorter, their legs longer, their knees larger, their person smaller. Conversation soon dried up. Willie whistled tunelessly through his teeth; Macgregor kept his jaw set and occasionally and inadvertently kicked a loose stone. Down on the main road an electric car bound for Glasgow hove in sight. Simultaneously they started to run. After a few paces they pulled up, as though suddenly conscious of unseemliness, and resumed their sober pace--and lost the car.

They boarded the next, having sacrificed twelve precious minutes of their leave. Of course, they would never have dreamed of travelling 'inside'--and yet . . . They ascended as gingerly as a pretty girl aware of ungainly ankles surmounts a stile. Arrived safely on the roof, they sat down and puffed each a long breath suggestive of grave peril overcome. They covered their knees as far as they could and as surreptitiously as possible.

Presently, with the help of cigarettes, which they smoked industriously, they began to revive. Their lips were unsealed, though conversation could not be said to gush. They did their best to look like veterans. An old woman smiled rather sadly, but very kindly, in their direction, and Macgregor reddened, while Willie spat in defiance of the displayed regulation.

As the journey proceeded, their talk dwindled. It was after a long pause that Willie said:

'Ye'll be for hame as sune as we get to Glesca--eh?'

'Ay. . . . An' you'll be for yer aunt's--eh?'

'Ay,' Willie sighed, and lowering his voice, said: 'What'll ye dae if they laugh at ye?'

'They'll no laugh,' Macgregor replied, some indignation in his assurance.

'H'm! . . . Maybe _she'll_ laugh at ye.'

'Nae fears!' But the confident tone was overdone. Macgregor, after all, was not quite sure about Christina. She laughed at so many things. He was to meet her at seven, and of late he had lost sleep wondering how she would receive his first appearance in the kilt. He dreaded her chaff more than any horrors of war that lay before him.

'Aw, she'll laugh, sure enough,' croaked Willie. 'I wud ha'e naething to dae wi' the weemen if I was you. Ye canna trust them,' added this misogynist of twenty summers.

Macgregor took hold of himself. 'What'll ye dae if yer aunt laughs?' he quietly demanded.

'Her? Gor! I never heard her laugh yet--excep' in her sleep efter eatin' a crab. But by Jings, if she laughs at me, I--I'll gang oot an' ha'e a beer!'

'But ye've ta'en the pledge.'

'To ----! I forgot aboot that. Weel, I--I'll wait an' see what she's got in for the tea first. . . . But she _canna_ laugh. I'll bet ye a packet o' fags she greets.'

'I'll tak' ye on!'

It may be said at once that the wager was never decided, for the simple reason that when the time came Willie refused all information--including the fact that his aunt had kissed him. Which is not, alas, to say that his future references to her were to be more respectful than formerly.

* * * * *

At three minutes before seven Macgregor stood outside Miss Tod's little shop, waiting for the departure of a customer. It would be absurd to say that his knees shook, but it is a fact that his spirit trembled. Suspended from a finger of his left hand was a small package of Christina's favourite sweets, which unconsciously he kept spinning all the time. His right hand was chiefly occupied in feeling for a pocket which no longer existed, and then trying to look as if it had been doing something entirely different. He wished the customer would 'hurry up'; yet when she emerged at last, he was not ready. He was miserably, desperately afraid of Christina's smile, and just as miserably, desperately desirous to see it again.

Solemnly seven began to toll from a church tower. He pulled himself up. After all, why should she laugh? And if she did--well. . . .

Bracing himself, he strode forward, grasped the rattling handle and pushed. The little signal bell above the door went off with a monstrous 'ding' that rang through his spine, and in a condition of feverish moistness he entered, and, halting a pace within, saw in blurred fashion, and seemingly at a great distance, the loveliest thing he knew.

Christina did smile, but it was upon, not at, him. And she said lightly, and by no means unkindly:

'Hullo, Mac! . . . Ye've had yer hair cut.'

From sheer relief after the long strain, something was bound to give way. The string on his finger snapped and the package, reaching the floor, gaily exploded.

VI

MRS. McOSTRICH ENTERTAINS

'I'm fed up wi' pairties,' was Macgregor's ungracious response when informed at home of the latest invitation. 'I dinna ask for leave jist for to gang to a rotten pairty.'

'Ay, ye've mair to dae wi' yer leave,' his father was beginning, with a wink, when his mother, with something of her old asperity, said:

'Macgreegor, that's no the way to speak o' pairties that folk gi'e in yer honour. An' you, John, should think shame o' yersel'. Ye should baith be sayin' it's terrible kind o' Mistress McOstrich to ask ye what nicht wud suit yer convenience.'

Macgregor regarded his mother almost as in the days when he addressed her as 'Maw'--yet not quite. There was a twinkle in his eye. Evidently she had clean forgotten he had grown up! Possibly she detected the twinkle and perceived her relapse, for she went on quickly--

'Though dear knows hoo Mistress McOstrich can afford to gi'e a pairty wi' her man's trade in its present condeetion.'

'She's been daft for gi'ein' pah-ties since ever I can mind,' Mr. Robinson put in, 'an' the Kaiser hissel' couldna stop her, Still, Macgreegor, she's an auld frien', an' it wud be a peety to offend her. Ye'll be mair at hame there nor ye was at yer Aunt Purdie's swell affair. Dod, Lizzie, thon was a gorgeous banquet! I never tasted as much nor ett as little; I never heard sich high-class conversation nor felt liker a nap; I never sat on safter chairs nor looked liker a martyr on tin tacks.'

Macgregor joined in his father's guffaw, but stopped short, loyalty revolting. Aunt Purdie had meant it kindly.

'Tits, John!' said Lizzie, 'ye got on fine excep' when ye let yer wine jeelly drap on the carpet.'

'Oho, so there was wine in 't! I fancied it was inebriated-like. But the mistak' I made was in tryin' to kep it when it was descendin'. A duke wud jist ha'e let it gang as if a wine jeelly was naething to him. But, d'ye ken, wife, I was unco uneasy when I discovered the bulk o' it on ma shoe efter we had withdrew to the drawin' room----'

'Haud yer tongue, man! Macgreegor, what nicht 'll suit ye?'

'If ye say a nicht, I'll try for it; but I canna be sure o' gettin' a late pass.' He was less uncertain when making appointments with Christina.

And Mr. Robinson once more blundered and caused his son to blush by saying: 'He wud rayther spend the evenin' wi' his intended--eh, Macgreegor?'

'But she's to be invited!' Lizzie cried triumphantly. 'So there ye are!'

'Ah, but that's no the same,' John persisted, 'as meetin' her quiet-like. When I was courtin' you, Lizzie, did ye no prefer----'

Lizzie ignored her man--the only way. 'What aboot Friday, next week?'

'If we're no in Flanders afore then,' reluctantly replied the soldier of seven weeks' standing.

* * * * *

Happily for Mrs. McOstrich's sake Macgregor was able to keep the engagement, and credit may be given him for facing the wasted evening with a fairly cheerful countenance. Perhaps Christina, with whom he arrived a little late, did something to mitigate his grudge against his hostess.

Mrs. McOstrich was painfully fluttered by having a real live kiltie in her little parlour, which was adorned as heretofore with ornaments borrowed from the abodes of her guests. Though Macgregor was acquainted with all the guests, she insisted upon solemnly introducing him, along with his betrothed to each individual with the formula: 'This is Private Robi'son an' his intended.'

While Macgregor grinned miserably, Christina, the stranger, smiled sweetly, if a little disconcertingly.

Then the party settled down again to its sober pleasures. Macgregor possessed a fairly clear memory of the same company in a similar situation a dozen years ago, but the only change which now impressed itself upon him was that Mr. Pumpherston had become much greyer, stouter, shorter of breath, and was no longer funny. And, as in the past, the prodigious snores of Mr. McOstrich, who still followed his trade of baker, sounded at intervals through the wall without causing the company the slightest concern, and were likewise no longer funny.

After supper, which consisted largely of lemonade and pastries, the hostess requested her guests, several being well-nigh torpid, to attend to a song by Mr. Pumpherston. No one (excepting his wife) wanted to hear it, but the Pumpherston song had become traditional with the McOstrich entertainments. One could not have the latter without the former.

'He's got a new sang,' Mrs. Pumpherston intimated, with a stimulating glance round the company, 'an' he's got a tunin' fork, forbye, that saves him wrastlin' for the richt key, as it were. Tune up, Geordie!'

Mr. Pumpherston deliberately produced the fork, struck it on his knee, winced, muttered 'dammit,' and gazed upwards. Not so many years ago Macgregor would have exploded; to-night he was occupied in trying to find Christina's hand under the table.

'Doh, me, soh, doh, soh, me, doh,' hummed the vocalist.

Christina, who had been looking desperately serious, let out a small squeak and hurriedly blew her nose. Macgregor regarded her in astonishment, and she withdrew the little finger she had permitted him to capture.

'It's a patriotic sang in honour,' Mrs. Pumpherston started to explain----

'Ach, woman!' cried her spouse, 'ye've made me loss ma key.' He re-struck the fork irritably, and proceeded to inform the company--'It's no exac'ly a new sang, but----'

'Ye'll be lossin' yer key again, Geordie.'

With a sulky grunt, Mr. Pumpherston once more struck his fork, but this time discreetly on the leg of his chair, and in his own good time made a feeble attack on 'Rule, Britannia.'

'This is fair rotten,' Macgregor muttered at the third verse, resentful that his love should be apparently enjoying it.

'Remember ye're a sojer,' she whispered back, 'an' thole.' But she let him find her hand again.

The drear performance came to an end amid applause sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Pumpherston.

'Excep' when ye cracked on "arose," ye managed fine,' she said to her perspiring mate, and to the hostess, 'What think ye o' that for a patriotic sang, Mistress McOstrich?'

'Oh, splendid--splendid!' replied Mrs. McOstrich with a nervous start. For the last five minutes she had been lost in furtive contemplation of her two youthful guests, her withered countenance more melancholy even than usual.

Ten o'clock struck, and, to Macgregor's ill-disguised delight, Christina rose and said she must be going.

Mrs. McOstrich accompanied the two to the outer door. There she took Christina's hand, stroked it once or twice, and let it go.

'Macgreegor has been a frien' o' mines since he was a gey wee laddie,' she said, 'an' I'm rael prood to ha'e had his intended in ma hoose. I'll never forget neither o' ye. If I had had a laddie o' ma ain, I couldna ha'e wished him to dae better nor Macgreegor has done--in every way.' Abruptly she pressed something into Christina's hand and closed the girl's fingers upon it. 'Dinna look at it noo,' she went on hastily. 'It's yours, dearie, but ye'll gi'e it to Macgreegor when the time comes for him to--to gang. Ma grandfayther was a dandy in his way, an' it's a' he left me, though I had great expectations.'

Gently she pushed the pair of them forth and closed the door.

At the foot of the stair, under a feeble gas-jet, Christina opened her hand, disclosing an old-fashioned ring set with a blood-stone.

'Ye never tell't me she was like that,' the girl said softly, yet a little accusingly.

'I never thought,' muttered he, truthfully enough.

VII

WILLIE STANDS UP

It is not the most roughly nurtured of us who will rough it the most cheerfully. Willie Thomson, of harsh and meagre upbringing, was the grumbler of his billet. He found fault with the camp fare, accommodation and hours in particular, with the discipline in general. Yet, oddly enough, after a fortnight or so, he seemed to accept the physical drill at 7 a.m. with a sort of dour satisfaction, though he never had a good word to say for it.

His complaints at last exasperated Macgregor, who, on a certain wet evening, when half the men were lounging drearily within the billet, snapped the question:

'What the blazes made ye enlist?'

The answer was unexpected. 'You!'

'Ye're a leear!'

With great deliberation Willie arose from the bench on which he had been reclining. He spat on the floor and proceeded to unbutton his tunic,

'Nae man,' he declared, as if addressing an audience, 'calls me that twicet!'

'Wudna be worth his while,' said his friend, carelessly.

'I challenge ye to repeat it.'

The tone of the words caused Macgregor to stare, but he said calmly enough: 'Either ye was a leear the nicht ye enlisted, or ye're a leear noo. Ye can tak' yer choice.'

'An' you can tak' aff yer coat!'

'I dinna need to undress for to gi'e ye a hammerin', if that's what ye're efter. But I'm no gaun to dae it here. We'd baith get into trouble.'

'Ye're henny,' said Willie.

Macgregor was more puzzled than angry. Here was Willie positively asking for a punching in public!

'What's wrang wi' ye, Wullie?' he asked in a lowered voice. 'Wait till we get oor next leave. The chaps here'll jist laugh at ye.'

'It'll maybe be you they'll laugh at. Come on, ye cooard!'

By this time the other fellows had become interested, and one of them, commonly called Jake, the oldest in the billet, came forward.

'What's up, Grocer?' he inquired of Macgregor, who had early earned his nickname thanks to Uncle Purdie's frequent consignments of dainties, which were greatly appreciated by all in the billet.

'He's aff his onion,' said Macgregor, disgustedly.

'He says I'm a leear,' said Willie, sullenly. Jake's humorous mouth went straight, not without apparent effort.

'Weel,' he said slowly, judicially, 'it's maybe a peety to fecht aboot a trifle like that, an' we canna permit kickin', clawin' an' bitin' in this genteel estayblishment; but seein' it's a dull evenin', an' jist for to help for to pass the time, I'll len' ye ma auld boxin' gloves, an' ye can bash awa' till ye're wearit. Sam!' he called over his shoulder, 'fetch the gloves, an' I'll see fair play. . . . I suppose. Grocer, ye dinna want to apologeeze.'

Macgregor's reply was to loosen his tunic. He was annoyed with himself and irritated by Willie, but above all he resented the publicity of the affair.

With mock solemnity Jake turned to Willie. 'In case o' yer decease, wud ye no like to leave a lovin' message for the aunt we've heard ye blessin' noo an' then?'

'To pot wi' her!' muttered Willie.

A high falsetto voice from the gathering' audience cried: 'Oh, ye bad boy, come here till I skelp ye!'--and there was a general laugh, in which the hapless object did not join.

'Ach, dinna torment him,' Macgregor said impulsively.

While willing hands fixed the gloves on the combatants the necessary floor space was cleared. There were numerous offers of the services of seconds, but the self-constituted master of ceremonies, Jake, vetoed all formalities.

'Let them dae battle in their ain fashion,' said he. 'It'll be mair fun for us. But it's understood that first blood ends it. Are ye ready, lads? Then get to wark. Nae hittin' ablow the belt.'

By this time Macgregor was beginning to feel amused. The sight of Willie and himself in the big gloves tickled him.

'Come on, Wullie,' he called cheerfully.

'Am I a leear?' Willie demanded.

'Ye are!--but ye canna help it.'

'I can if I like!' yelled Willie, losing his head. 'Tak' that!'

A tremendous buffet with the right intended for Macgregor's nose caught his forehead with a sounding whack.