"What are you doing here?" said his father.
John's fingers worked before him; his eyes were large and aghast on his father; though his mouth hung open no words would come.
"How lang has he been here, baker?"
There was a curious regard between Gourlay and the baker. Gourlay spoke with a firm civility.
"Oh, just a wee whilie," said the baker.
"I see. You want to shield him.—You have been playing the truant, have 'ee? Am I to throw away gude money on you for this to be the end o't?"
"Dinna be hard on him, John," pleaded the baker. "A boy's but a boy. Dinna thrash him."
"Me thrash him!" cried Gourlay. "I pay the High School of Skeighan to thrash him, and I'll take damned good care I get my money's worth. I don't mean to hire dowgs and bark for mysell."
He grabbed his son by the coat collar and swung him out the room. Down High Street he marched, carrying his cub by the scruff of the neck as you might carry a dirty puppy to an outhouse. John was black in the face; time and again in his wrath Gourlay swung him off the ground. Grocers coming to their doors, to scatter fresh yellow sawdust on the old, now trampled black and wet on the sills, stared sideways, chins up and mouths open, after the strange spectacle. But Gourlay splashed on amid the staring crowd, never looking to the right or left.