Macgregor dropped his reply to Christina's unsatisfactory note into
the pillar-box and, half wishing he had destroyed it instead,
rejoined the faithful Willie Thomson. He still looked so gloomy
that Willie once more demanded to be told what the ---- was up with
him. Receiving no response, Willie remarked:
'If ye tak' a face like that to yer girl, she'll be wantin' to play
a tune on it.'
Macgregor held his peace. They had just arrived in Glasgow, but
without a trace of the usual eagerness on his part.
'I believe,' said Willie, with an inspiration, 'her an' you ha'e
cast oot.'
'Clay up! She's awa' her holidays.'
'Save us! Awa' her holidays!' cried Willie, uttering, unawares,
his friend's bitterest thought--'an' we may get oor mairchin'
orders ony meenute! Weel, weel, preserve me frae the female sect!
I suppose ye'll be for gi'ein' yer ain folk a treat for a change.'
'They're a' at Rothesay, at Granpaw Purdie's,' Macgregor returned
shortly, now half glad that he had let the letter go.
It was not a harsh letter, yet neither was it a humble one. In
effect, it informed Christina that she was welcome to disport
herself even though the writer lay dead in a trench. While
intended to be freezing, it had been written in considerable heat,
physical and mental.
'Then what are ye gaun to dae the nicht?' Willie pursued, his mind
simmering with curiosity. Macgregor had been very queer since his
aunt's visit of the previous afternoon, and the arrival of a
letter, eagerly grabbed, had by no means mitigated the queerness.
Willie was convinced that something had gone wrong between
Macgregor and Christina. He would not be sorry to see the
engagement broken. Macgregor would have more time and cash to
spend on his friends. On the other hand, Christina was undoubtedly
a 'clinker' in her way, and Willie could do with more hospitality
like hers. Well, there was no saying what might happen if she were
free and Macgregor attached to another girl. . . .
'What are ye gaun to dae the nicht, Macgreegor?' he repeated,
rousing himself as well as his friend.
'Dear knows,' came the dreary answer. 'I think I'll awa' back to
the camp.' Yet if he did not greatly desire Willie's company, he
desired his own less.
'Cheer up for ony favour,' said Willie. 'If I could afford it, I
wud stan' ye a feed.'
The hint was not taken, and they strolled on, aimlessly so far as
Macgregor was concerned.
About six o'clock, and while they were passing a large drapery
warehouse, Willie gave his friend a violent nudge and hoarsely
whispered:
'Gor! See thon!'
'What?'
'Thon girl!'--pointing to a damsel in a dark skirt and pink blouse,
who had just emerged from the warehouse.
'What aboot her?' said Macgregor impatiently,
'It's her--the fat yin--the girl I burst the twa bob on!'
'She's no that fat,' Macgregor remarked without interest. Then
suddenly--'Here! What are ye efter?'
'Her! She's fat when ye're close to her. Come on! I'll
introjuice ye.'
'Thenk ye! I'm no takin' ony.'
'Jist for fun. I want to see her face when she sees me again.'
'Weel, I'll no prevent ye. So long.' At that moment the girl was
held up at a busy crossing.
'Hullo, Maggie!' said Willie pertly.
'I'm off,' said Macgregor--but his arm was gripped.
The girl turned. 'Hullo,' she said coolly; 'still livin'?'
Catching sight of Macgregor, she giggled. It was not an unpleasing
giggle. Lean girls cannot produce it.
'This is Private Macgreegor Robi'son,' said Willie, unabashed.
She smiled and held out her hand. After a moment she said to
Willie: 'Are ye no gaun to tell him ma name, stupid?'
'I forget it, except the Maggie.'
'Aweel,' she said good-humouredly, 'Private Robi'son'll jist ha'e
to content hissel' wi' that, though it's a terrible common name.'
She did the giggle again.
The chance of crossing came, and they all moved over; on the
crowded pavement it was impossible to proceed three abreast.
'Never mind me,' said Willie humorously.
'Wha's mindin' you?' she retorted.
'Gettin' hame?' said Macgregor with an effort at politeness, while
fuming inwardly.
'Jist that. Awfu' warm weather, is't no? It was fair meltin' in
the warehoose the day. I'm fair dished up.' She heaved a sigh,
which was no more unpleasing than her giggle. 'It's killin'
weather for you sojer lads,' she added kindly.
Macgregor experienced a wavelet of sympathy. 'Wud ye like a
slider?' he asked abruptly.
'Ye're awfu' kind. I could dae wi' it fine.'
Presently the three were seated in an ice-cream saloon. The
conversation was supplied mainly by the girl and Willie, and took
the form of a wordy sparring match. Every time she scored a point
the girl glanced at Macgregor. He became mildly amused by her
repartee, and at last took a cautious look at her.
She was certainly stout, but not with a clumsy stoutness; in fact,
her figure was rather attractive. She had dark brown hair, long
lashed, soft, dark eyes, a provocative, mobile mouth, and a nice
pinky-tan colouring. At the same time, she was too frankly forward
and consistently impudent for Macgregor's taste; and he noticed
that her hands were not pretty like Christina's.
She caught his eye, and he smiled back, but absently. He was
wondering what Christina was doing and how she would take his
letter in the morning. . . . He consulted his watch. A long,
empty evening lay before him. How on earth was he to fill it? He
wanted distraction, and already his companions' chaff was getting
tiresome.
On the spur of the moment--'What aboot a pictur hoose?' he said.
'That's the cheese!' cried Willie.
But Maggie shook her head and sighed, and explained that her mother
was expecting her home for tea, and sighed again.
'Ha'e yer tea wi' us,' said the hospitable Macgregor.
She glanced at him under lowered lashes, her colour rising. 'My!
ye're awfu' kind,' she said softly. 'I wish to goodness I could.'
'Scoot hame an' tell yer mither, an' we'll wait for ye here,' said
stage-manager William.
'I wudna trust _you_ . . . but I think I could trust _him_.'
'Oh, we'll wait sure enough,' Macgregor said indifferently.
'I'll risk it!' she cried, and straightway departed.
Willie grinned at his friend. 'What dae ye think o' fat Maggie?'
he said.
'Naething,' answered Mac, and refused to be drawn into further
conversation.
Within half an hour she was back, flushed and bright of eye. She
had on a pink print, crisp and fresh, a flowery hat, gloves
carefully mended, neat shoes and transparent stockings.
'By Jings, ye're dressed to kill at a thoosan' yairds!' Willie
observed.
Ignoring him, she looked anxiously for the other's approval.
'D'ye like hot pies?' he inquired, rising and stretching himself.
An hour later, in the picture house a heartrending, soul thrilling
melodrama was at its last gasp. The long suffering heroine was in
the arms of the long misjudged, misfortune-ridden, but ever
faithful hero.
'Oh, lovely!' murmured Maggie.
Macgregor said nothing, but his eyes were moist. He may, or may
not, have been conscious of a plump, warm, thinly-clad shoulder
close against his arm.
Hero and heroine vanished. The lights went up. Macgregor blew his
nose, then looked past the fat girl to make a scoffing remark to
Willie.
But Willie's seat was vacant.
* * * * *
Maggie laid her ungloved hand on the adjoining seat. 'It's warm,'
she informed Macgregor. 'He canna be lang awa'.'
'Did he no say he was comin' back?' Macgregor asked rather
irritably.
'He never said a word to me. I didna notice him gang: I was that
ta'en up wi' the picturs. But never heed,' she went on cheerfully;
'it's a guid riddance o' bad rubbish. I wonder what's next on the
prog----
'But this'll no dae! He--he's your frien'.'
'Him! Excuse me for seemin' to smile. I can tell ye I was
surprised to see a dacent-like chap like you sae chummy wi' sic a
bad character as him.'
'Aw, Wullie Thomson's no near as bad as his character. A' the
same, he had nae business to slope wi'oot lettin' us ken. But
he'll likely be comin' back. We'll wait for five meenutes an' see.'
Maggie drew herself up. 'I prefer no to wait where I'm no
welcome,' she said in a deeply offended tone, and made to rise.
He caught her plump arm. 'Wha said ye wasna welcome? Eat yer
sweeties an' dinna talk nonsense. If ye want to see the rest o'
the picturs, I'm on. I've naething else to dae the nicht.'