He dreaded her chaff more than any horrors of war that lay
before him.
'Aw, she'll laugh, sure enough,' croaked Willie. 'I wud ha'e
naething to dae wi' the weemen if I was you. Ye canna trust them,'
added this misogynist of twenty summers.
Macgregor took hold of himself. 'What'll ye dae if yer aunt
laughs?' he quietly demanded.
'Her? Gor! I never heard her laugh yet--excep' in her sleep efter
eatin' a crab. But by Jings, if she laughs at me, I--I'll gang oot
an' ha'e a beer!'
'But ye've ta'en the pledge.'
'To ----! I forgot aboot that. Weel, I--I'll wait an' see what
she's got in for the tea first. . . . But she _canna_ laugh. I'll
bet ye a packet o' fags she greets.'
'I'll tak' ye on!'
It may be said at once that the wager was never decided, for the
simple reason that when the time came Willie refused all
information--including the fact that his aunt had kissed him.
Which is not, alas, to say that his future references to her were
to be more respectful than formerly.
* * * * *
At three minutes before seven Macgregor stood outside Miss Tod's
little shop, waiting for the departure of a customer. It would be
absurd to say that his knees shook, but it is a fact that his
spirit trembled. Suspended from a finger of his left hand was a
small package of Christina's favourite sweets, which unconsciously
he kept spinning all the time. His right hand was chiefly occupied
in feeling for a pocket which no longer existed, and then trying to
look as if it had been doing something entirely different.
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