So he hurried through the warehouse without replying to the
chaffing inquiries of his mates, and ran upstairs to his uncle's
office. He was not afraid of his uncle; on the other hand, he had
never received or expected special favour on account of the
relationship.
Mr. Purdie was now a big man in the grocery trade. He had a cosy
private room with a handsome desk, a rather gorgeous carpet and an
easy-chair. He no longer attended at the counter or tied up
parcels--except when, alone on the premises late in the evening, he
would sometimes furtively serve imaginary customers, just for auld
lang syne, as he excused to himself his absurd proceeding.
'But what kep' ye late, Macgreegor?' he inquired, with a futile
effort to make his good-humoured, whiskered visage assume a stern
expression. 'Come, come, oot wi' it! An 'unce o' guid reasons is
worth a pun' o' fair apologies.'
'The recruitin' office,' said Macgregor, blushing, 'wasna open till
nine.'
'The recruitin' office! What--what--guidsake, laddie! dinna tell
me ye've been thinkin' o' enlistin'!'
'I've enlisted.'
Mr. Purdie fell back in his chair.
'The 9th H.L.I.,' said Macgregor, and, as if to improve matters if
possible, added, 'Glesca Hielanders--Kilts.'
The successful grocer sat up, pulled down his waistcoat and made a
grimace which he imagined to be a frown. 'Neither breeks nor
kilts,' he declared heavily, 'can cover deceit. Ye're under age,
Macgreegor.
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