Wee Macgreegor Enlists | Page 9

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