the House with the Green Shutters, and
"Curse you!" said he; "you may refuse to answer me the day, but wait
till this day eight weeks. You'll be roaring than."

On that day eight weeks Gourlay received a letter from Gibson requiring
him to hold himself in readiness to deliver stone, lime, baulks of
timber, and iron girders in Mr. Wilson's holm, in terms of his
agreement, and in accordance with the orders to be given him from day to
day. He was apprised that a couple of carts of lime and seven loads of
stone were needed on the morrow.

He went down the street with grinding jaws, the letter crushed to a
white pellet in his hand. It would have gone ill with Gibson had he met
him. Gourlay could not tell why, or to what purpose, he marched on and
on with forward staring eyes. He only knew vaguely that the anger drove
him.

When he came to the Cross a long string of carts was filing from the
Skeighan Road, and passing across to the street leading Fleckie-ward. He
knew them to be Wilson's. The Deacon was there, of course, hobbling on
his thin shanks, and cocking his eye to see everything that happened.

"What does this mean?" Gourlay asked him, though he loathed the Deacon.

"Oh, haven't ye heard?" quoth the Deacon blithely. "That's the stuff for
the new mining village out the Fleckie Road. Wilson has nabbed the
contract for the carting. They're saying it was Gibson's influence wi'
Goudie that helped him to the getting o't."

Amid his storm of anger at the trick, Gourlay was conscious of a sudden
pity for himself, as for a man most unfairly worsted. He realized for a
moment his own inefficiency as a business man, in conflict with
cleverer rivals, and felt sorry to be thus handicapped by nature. Though
wrath was uppermost, the other feeling was revealed, showing itself by a
gulping in the throat and a rapid blinking of the eyes. The Deacon
marked the signs of his chagrin.

"Man!" he reported to the bodies, "but Gourlay was cut to the quick. His
face showed how gunkit he was. Oh, but he was chawed. I saw his breist
give the great heave."

"Were ye no sorry?" cried the baker.

"Thorry, hi!" laughed the Deacon. "Oh, I was thorry, to be sure," he
lisped, "but I didna thyow't. I'm glad to thay I've a grand control of
my emotionth. Not like thum folk we know of," he added slyly, giving the
baker a "good one."

All next day Gibson's masons waited for their building material in
Wilson's holm. But none came. And all day seve