n' 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 me what ye had. I treated ye ill aboot the enlistin'. But
I wasna gaun to enlist to please you, nor ma aunt, neither.' He
rose slowly and picked up his shabby jacket. 'But, by ----, I'll
enlist to please masel'!' He held out his hand. 'There it is, if
ye want it, Macgreegor. . . . Ha'e ye a match? Weel, show a
licht. Is ma nose queer-like?'

'Ay,' Macgregor unwillingly replied, and, with inspiration, added
consolingly, 'But it was aye that, Wullie.'

IV

THE RING

'Wha' was chasin' ye?' Christina inquired, as Macgregor came
breathless to the counter, which she was tidying up for the night.

'I was feart I was gaun to be late.' he panted.

'I wud ha'e excused ye under the unique circumstances,' she said
graciously. 'Sit doon an' recover yer puff.'

He took the chair, saying: 'It was Wullie Thomson. He's awa' to
enlist.'

'Wullie Thomson! Weel, that's a bad egg oot the basket. Hoo did
ye manage it, Mac?'

'It wasna me,' Macgregor replied, not a little regretfully. 'He's
enlistin' to please hissel'. He says he's fed up wi' his aunt.'

'She's been feedin' him up for a lang while, puir body. But ye're
a queer lad,' she said softly, 'the way ye stick to a fushionless
character like him. I was tellin' Miss Tod,' she continued,
'aboot----'

'Oor engagement!' he burst out, scarlet.

'Whist, man!--ye've a wild imagination!--aboot ye enlistin'. She's
been in a state o' patriotic tremulosity ever since. Dinna be
surprised if she tri