Through the gateway flanked by tall recruiting posters came rather
hurriedly a youth of no great stature, but of sturdy build and
comely enough countenance, including bright brown eyes and fresh
complexion. Though the dull morning was coldish, perspiration
might have been detected on his forehead. Crossing the street,
without glance to right or left, he increased his pace; also, he
squared his shoulders and threw up his head with an air that might
have been defiance at the fact of his being more than an hour late
for his day's work. His face, however, betrayed a certain
spiritual emotion not suggestive of anticipated trouble with
employer or foreman. As a matter of fact, the familiar everyday
duty had ceased to exist for him, and if his new exaltation wavered
a little as he neared the warehouse, fifteen minutes later, it was
only because he would have to explain things to the uncle who
employed him, and to other people; and he was ever shy of speaking
about himself.
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. Ye're but eichteen!'
'Nineteen, Uncle Purdie.'
'Eh? An' when was ye nineteen?'
'This mornin'.'
Mr. Purdie's hand went to his mouth in time to stop a guffaw.
Presently he soberly inquired what his nephew's parents had said on
the matter.
'I ha'ena tell't them yet.' 'Ah, that's bad. What--what made ye
enlist?'
Macgregor knew, but could not have put it in words.
'Gettin' tired o' yer job here?'
'Na, Uncle Purdie.'
'H'm!' Mr. Purdie fondled his left whisker. 'An' when--a--ha'e ye
got to--a--jine yer regiment?'
'The morn's mornin'. I believe we're gaun into camp immediately.'
'Oho! So ye'll be wantin' to be quit o' yer job here at once.
Weel, weel, if ye feel it's yer duty to gang, lad, I suppose it's
mines to let ye gang as cheery as I can. But--I maun tell yer
aunt.' Mr. Purdie rose.