‘Ye can feel.  Tak’ aff yer coat.’  Willie knew that despite his inches he was a poor match for the other, yet he was a stubborn chap.  ‘What business is it o’ yours whether I enlist or no?’ he scowled.

‘Will ye enlist?’

‘I’ll see ye damp first!’

‘Come on, then!’ Macgregor spat lightly On his palms.  ’I’ve nae time to waste.’

Willie cast his jacket on the ground.  ‘I’ll wrastle ye,’ he said, with a gleam of hope.

‘Thenk ye; but I’m no for dirtyin’ ma guid claes.  Come on!’

To Willie’s credit, let it be recorded, he did come on, and so promptly that Macgregor, scarcely prepared, had to take a light tap on the chin.  A brief display of thoroughly unscientific boxing ensued, and then Macgregor got home between the eyes.  Willie, tripping over his own jacket, dropped to earth.

‘I wasna ready that time,’ he grumbled, sitting up.

Macgregor seized his hand and dragged him to his feet, with the encouraging remark, ‘Ye’ll be readier next time.’

In the course of the second round Willie achieved a smart clip on his opponent’s ear, but next moment he received, as it seemed, an express train on the point of his nose, and straightway sat down in agony.

‘Is’t bled, Wullie?’ Macgregor presently inquired with compunction as well as satisfaction.

‘It’s near broke, ye——!’ groaned the sufferer, adding, ’I kent fine ye wud bate me.’

‘What for did ye fecht then?’

‘Nane o’ your business.’

‘Weel, get up.  Yer breeks’ll get soakit sittin’ 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?’