‘What’s wrang wi’ ye, Wullie?’ he asked in a lowered voice.  ’Wait till we get oor next leave.  The chaps here’ll jist laugh at ye.’

‘It’ll maybe be you they’ll laugh at.  Come on, ye cooard!’

By this time the other fellows had become interested, and one of them, commonly called Jake, the oldest in the billet, came forward.

‘What’s up, Grocer?’ he inquired of Macgregor, who had early earned his nickname thanks to Uncle Purdie’s frequent consignments of dainties, which were greatly appreciated by all in the billet.

‘He’s aff his onion,’ said Macgregor, disgustedly.

‘He says I’m a leear,’ said Willie, sullenly.  Jake’s humorous mouth went straight, not without apparent effort.

‘Weel,’ he said slowly, judicially, ’it’s maybe a peety to fecht aboot a trifle like that, an’ we canna permit kickin’, clawin’ an’ bitin’ in this genteel estayblishment; but seein’ it’s a dull evenin’, an’ jist for to help for to pass the time, I’ll len’ ye ma auld boxin’ gloves, an’ ye can bash awa’ till ye’re wearit.  Sam!’ he called over his shoulder, ‘fetch the gloves, an’ I’ll see fair play. . . .  I suppose.  Grocer, ye dinna want to apologeeze.’

Macgregor’s reply was to loosen his tunic.  He was annoyed with himself and irritated by Willie, but above all he resented the publicity of the affair.

With mock solemnity Jake turned to Willie.  ‘In case o’ yer decease, wud ye no like to leave a lovin’ message for the aunt we’ve heard ye blessin’ noo an’ then?’

‘To pot wi’ her!’ muttered Willie.

A high falsetto voice from the gathering’ audience cried:  ’Oh, ye bad boy, come here till I skelp ye!’—­and there was a general laugh, in which the hapless object did not join.

‘Ach, dinna torment him,’ Macgregor said impulsively.

While willing hands fixed the gloves on the combatants the necessary floor space was cleared.  There were numerous offers of the services of seconds, but the self-constituted master of ceremonies, Jake, vetoed all formalities.

‘Let them dae battle in their ain fashion,’ said he.  ’It’ll be mair fun for us.  But it’s understood that first blood ends it.  Are ye ready, lads?  Then get to wark.  Nae hittin’ ablow the belt.’

By this time Macgregor was beginning to feel amused.  The sight of Willie and himself in the big gloves tickled him.

‘Come on, Wullie,’ he called cheerfully.

‘Am I a leear?’ Willie demanded.

‘Ye are!—­but ye canna help it.’

‘I can if I like!’ yelled Willie, losing his head.  ‘Tak’ that!’

A tremendous buffet with the right intended for Macgregor’s nose caught his forehead with a sounding whack.

Thus began an extraordinary battle in which there was little attempt at dodging, less at guarding and none at feinting.  Each man confined his attentions to his opponent’s face and endeavoured to reached the bull’s eye, as it were, of the target, though that point was not often attained, and never with spectacular effect.  Ere long, however, Macgregor developed a puffiness around his left eye while Willie exhibited a swelling lip.  Both soon were pouring out sweat.  They fought with frantic enthusiasm and notable waste of energy.