Opposite the Fiddler's Inn whom should they meet but Wilson! A snigger shot to his features at the sight. Gourlay swung the boy up; for a moment a wild impulse surged within him to club his rival with his own son.
He marched into the vestibule of the High School, the boy dangling from his great hand.
"Where's your gaffer?" he roared at the janitor.
"Gaffer?" blinked the janitor.
"Gaffer, dominie, whatever the damn you ca' him—the fellow that runs the business."
"The Headmaster!" said the janitor.
"Heidmaister, ay," said Gourlay in scorn, and went trampling after the janitor down a long wooden corridor. A door was flung open showing a classroom where the Headmaster was seated teaching Greek.
The sudden appearance of the great-chested figure in the door, with his fierce, gleaming eyes, and the rain-beads shining on his frieze coat, brought into the close academic air the sharp, strong gust of an outer world.
"I believe I pay you to look after that boy," thundered Gourlay. "Is this the way you do your work?" And with the word he sent his son spinning along the floor like a curling-stone, till he rattled, a wet, huddled lump, against a row of chairs. John slunk bleeding behind the master.
"Really?" said MacCandlish, rising in protest.