‘Coming with thanks,—­Yours truly, W. THOMSON.’

By the same post he wrote to his aunt—­for cash; but her reply consisting of a tract headed with a picture of a young man in the remnants of a bath towel dining in a pig-sty, he was compelled once more to appeal to Macgregor, who fortunately happened to be fairly flush.  He expended the borrowed shilling on a cane and a packet of Breath Perfumers for himself, and for Christina a box of toffee which, being anhungered while on sentry duty the same night, he speedily devoured with more relish than regret.

Unless we reckon evenings spent in Macgregor’s home in the small boy period, and a funeral or two, Willie’s experience of tea parties was nil.  Despite his frequently expressed contempt for such ‘footerin’ affairs,’ he was secretly flattered by Christina’s invitation.  At the same time, he suffered considerable anguish of mind on account of his ignorance of the ‘fancy behaviour’ which he deemed indispensable in the presence of a hostess whom he considered ‘awfu’ genteel.’  With reluctance, but in sheer desperation, he applied to his seldom-failing friend.

‘What the blazes,’ he began with affected unconcern, ’dae ye dae at a tea pairty?’

‘Eat an’ jaw,’ came the succinct reply.

‘But what dae ye jaw aboot?’

‘Onything ye like—­as long as ye leave oot the bad language.’

‘I doobt I’ll no ha’e muckle to say,’ sighed Willie.

‘She’ll want to hear aboot the camp an’ so on,’ Macgregor said, by way of encouragement.

‘But that’ll be piper’s news to her.  You’ve tell’t her——­’

‘I’ve never had the time.’

Willie gasped.  ‘What the ——­ dae you an’ her jaw aboot?’

‘Nane o’ your business!’

‘Haw, haw!’ laughed Willie, mirthlessly.  ’My! but ye’re a spoony deevil!—­nae offence intendit.’  The apology was made hastily owing to a sudden change in Macgregor’s expression and colour.

Macgregor lit a cigarette and returned his well-stocked aluminium case to his pocket.

The silence was broken by Willie.

‘Savin’ up?’

‘Ay.’

’It’s a dashed bad habit, Macgreegor.  Dinna let it grow on ye.  If naebody saved up, everybody wud be weel aff. . . .  Aweel, what maun be maun be.’  And, groaning, Private Thomson drew forth a packet which his friend had ‘stood’ him the previous day.  ‘Regairdin’ this tea pairty,’ he resumed, ’are ye supposed to eat a’ ye can an’ leave what ye canna—­if there’s onything to leave?’

‘She’ll expect ye to eat a’ ye can.’

‘It’s easy seen she doesna ken me.’

‘Oh, she’ll be prepared for the warst, Wullie,’ said Macgregor, his good-humour returned.  ‘I can shift a bit masel’ when I’m in form.’

Whereat Willie’s countenance was illuminated by a happy thought. 
‘I’ll bet ye a tanner I’ll shift mair nor you!’

Macgregor laughed and shook his head.  ‘If you an’ me was gaun oor lane to restewrant, I wud tak’ ye on; but——­’