That's the reason I'm weerin' this
dish-cover. But it's your turn to weer it. Ye've been wounded
a'ready.'
'Na, na, Wullie!'
'Dae what I tell ye, ye ----!' Willie made the exchange of
headgear. . . . 'I say, Macgreegor!'
'What?'
'This is Flanders. Ye mind oor bet? Weel, we're quits noo. I'm
no owin' ye onything--eh?'
Macgregor grinned in spite of everything. 'Ay, we're quits noo,
Wullie, sure enough.'
'If ever we get oot o' this, will ye len' us dew francs?'
''Deed, ay. . . . Wullie, ye're riskin' yer life for me.'
'Awa' an' chase yersel'! I wonder what that girl o' yours is
thinkin' aboot the noo--if she's no sleepin'.'
There was a pause till Macgregor said awkwardly: 'Christina's
finished wi' me.'
'Eh?'
'I couldna tell ye afore; but she had got wind o' Maggie.'
'Maggie! Oh, hell! But no frae me, Macgreegor, no frae me! Ye
believe that?'
'Oh, ay.'
Willie let off sundry curses. 'But I suppose I'm to blame,' he
said bitterly.
'Naebody to blame but masel'.'
'But did ye no explain to Christina? A' ye did was to canoodle wi'
the wrang girl, pro tem.--a thing that happens daily. I couldna
fancy a girl that naebody had ever wanted to cuddle; an' if I was a
girl I couldna fancy a chap that----'
'Nae use talkin' aboot it, Wullie,' Macgregor said sadly, wearily.
'Aw, but her an' you 'll mak' it up afore ye're done. If ye dinna,
I'll want to kill masel' an' Maggie forbye.
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