Wee Macgreegor Enlists | Page 5

cried his friend, interested. 'Ye've changed yer mind, Wullie?'
'I've been conseederin' it for a while back. Ye needna think you had
onything to dae wi' it,' said Willie.
'Ye've been drinkin' beer,' his friend remarked, not accusingly, but
merely by way of stating a fact.
'So wud you, if ye had ma aunt.'
'Maybe I wud,' Macgregor sympathetically admitted.
'But ye couldna droon her in twa hauf pints. Ach, I'm fed up wi' her.
She startit yatterin' at me the nicht because I askit her for saxpence; so
at last I tell't her I wud suner jine Kitchener's nor see her ugly face for
anither week.'
'What did she say?'
'Said it was the first guid notion ever I had.'

'Weel,' said Macgregor eagerly, after a slight pause, 'since ye're for
enlistin', ye'd best dae it the nicht, Wullie.'
'I suppose I micht as weel jine your lot,' said Willie, carelessly.
Macgregor drew himself up. 'The 9th H.L.I, doesna accep' onything
that offers.'
'I'm as guid as you--an' I'm bigger nor you.'
'Ye're bigger, but ye're peely-wally. Still, Wullie, I wud like fine to see
ye in ma company.'
'Ye've a neck on ye! Your company! . . . Aweel, come on an' see me
dae it.'
In the dusk Macgregor peered at his watch. It told him that the thing
could not be done, not if he ran both ways. 'I canna manage it, Wullie,'
he said, with honest regret.
'Then it's off,' the contrary William declared.
'What's off?'
'I've changed ma mind. I'm no for the sojerin'.'
At this Macgregor bristled, so to speak. He could stand being 'codded,'
but already the Army was sacred to him.
'See here, Wullie, will ye gang an' enlist noo or tak' a hammerin'?'
'Wha'll gi'e me the hammerin'?'
'Come an' see,' was the curt reply. Macgregor turned back into the close
and led the way to a small yard comprising some sooty earth, several
blades of grass and a couple of poles for the support of clothes lines. A
little light came from windows above. Here he removed his jacket,
hung it carefully on a pole; and began to roll up his sleeves.
'It's ower dark here,' Willie complained. 'I canna see.'
'Ye can feel. Tak' aff yer coat.' Willie knew that despite his inches he
was a poor match for the other, yet he was a stubborn chap. 'What
business is it o' yours whether I enlist or no?' he scowled.
'Will ye enlist?'
'I'll see ye damp first!'
'Come on, then!' Macgregor spat lightly On his palms. 'I've nae time to
waste.'
Willie cast his jacket on the ground. 'I'll wrastle ye,' he said, with a
gleam of hope.
'Thenk ye; but I'm no for dirtyin' ma guid claes. Come on!'
To Willie's credit, let it be recorded, he did come on, and so promptly

that Macgregor, scarcely prepared, had to take a light tap on the chin. A
brief display of thoroughly unscientific boxing ensued, and then
Macgregor got home between the eyes. Willie, tripping over his own
jacket, dropped to earth.
'I wasna ready that time,' he grumbled, sitting up.
Macgregor seized his hand and dragged him to his feet, with the
encouraging remark, 'Ye'll be readier next time.'
In the course of the second round Willie achieved a smart clip on his
opponent's ear, but next moment he received, as it seemed, an express
train on the point of his nose, and straightway sat down in agony.
'Is't bled, Wullie?' Macgregor presently inquired with compunction as
well as satisfaction.
'It's near broke, ye----!' groaned the sufferer, adding, 'I kent fine ye wud
bate me.'
'What for did ye fecht then?'
'Nane o' your business.'
'Weel, get up. Yer breeks'll get soakit sittin' there.' The victor donned
his jacket.
'Ma breeks is nane o' your business, neither.'
'Ach, Wullie, dinna be a wean. Get up an' shake han's. I've got to gang.'
'Gang then! Awa' an' boast to yer girl that ye hut a man on his nose
behind his back----'
'Havers, man! What's wrang wi' ye?'
'I'll tell ye what's wrang wi' you, Macgreegor Robi'son!' Willie cleared
his throat noisily. 'Listen! Ye're ower weel aff. Ye've got a dacent
fayther an' mither an' brither an' sister; ye've got a dacent uncle; ye've
got a dacent girl. . . . An' what the hell ha'e I got? A rotten aunt!' Maybe
she canna help bein' rotten, but she is--damp rotten! She wud be gled,
though she wud greet, if I got a bullet the morn. There ye are! That's
me!'
'Wullie!' Macgregor exclaimed, holding out his hand, which the other
ignored.
'I'm rotten, tae,' he went on, bitterly. 'Fine I ken it. But I never had an
equal chance wi' you. I'm no blamin' ye. Ye've aye shared