He was meaning to drive, of course; Gourlay was proud of his gig, and always kept a spanking roadster. "What a fine figure of a man!" you thought, as you saw him coming swiftly towards you, seated high on his driving cushion. That driving cushion was Gourlay's pedestal from which he looked down on Barbie for many a day.
A quick step, yet shambling, came along the lobby. There was a pause, as of one gathering heart for a venture; then a clumsy knock on the door.
"Come in," snapped Gourlay.
Peter Riney's queer little old face edged timorously into the room. He only opened the door the width of his face, and looked ready to bolt at a word.
"Tam's deid!" he blurted.
Gourlay gashed himself frightfully with his razor, and a big red blob stood out on his cheek.
"Deid!" he stared.
"Yes," stammered Peter. "He was right enough when Elshie gae him his feed this morning; but when I went in enow to put the harness on, he was lying deid in the loose-box. The batts—it's like."
For a moment Gourlay stared with the open mouth of an angry surprise, forgetting to take down his razor.
"Aweel, Peter," he said at last, and Peter went away.