Willie and prosperity were still as far apart as ever, and even
Willie could hardly have blamed prosperity for that. He had no
deadly vices, but he could not stick to any job for more than a
month. He was out of work at present. Having developed into a
rather weedy, seedy-looking young man, he was not too proud to
sponge on the melancholy maiden aunt who had brought him up, and
whose efforts at stern discipline during his earlier years had
seemingly proved fruitless. Macgregor was the only human being he
could call friend.
'Ye're in a hurry,' he now observed, and put the usual question:
'Ha'e ye a fag on ye?'
Macgregor obliged, saying as kindly as he could, 'I'll maybe see ye
later, Wullie.'
'Thon girl again, I suppose.'
'So long,' said Macgregor, shortly.
'Haud on a meenute. I want to speak to ye. Ha'e ye done it?'
'Ay, this mornin'. . . . An' I'm gey busy.'
'Ye should leave the weemen alane, an' then ye wud ha'e time to
spare.'
'What ha'e ye got to speak aboot?' Macgregor impatiently demanded,
though he was in good time for his appointment.
'I was thinkin' o' enlistin',' said Willie.
'Oh!' cried his friend, interested. 'Ye've changed yer mind,
Wullie?'
'I've been conseederin' it for a while back. Ye needna think _you_
had onything to dae wi' it,' said Willie.
'Ye've been drinkin' beer,' his friend remarked, not accusingly,
but merely by way of stating a fact.
'So wud you, if ye had ma aunt.
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