Wee Macgreegor Enlists | Page 8

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