“Oh, a thousand thanks,” said Sandie; “that will be just delightful!”
This old landlady knew how to make good tea, a lost art with many now-a-days, and the result of her treatment was, that not only was Sandie’s headache dispelled, but he began to look at things more hopefully; and when at last it was time to start for Marischal College, where he had elected to compete, the two universities being not then amalgamated, he felt even cheerful before he had been five minutes in the fresh air.
It had now ceased snowing, but the snow was fully three inches deep on the street, and as he trudged along, more than one snowball came whizzing past his ear, for Aberdeen boys are perhaps the best snow-boys in all broad Scotland.
Sandie took no heed though, for his mind was all upon the coming competition. On reaching Broad Street and the University gate, he found he was too soon. He might have entered the quad, but he did not care to join the squad of roystering lads there. The fact is, he fancied that to-day his appearance was somewhat countrified, for he had not dressed in his Sunday clothing. He wore the same short trousers frayed at the ends, the same rough jacket bare at the elbows, an old Glengarry, and a pair of very Highland brogues; so he crossed over and began to examine the contents of a bookseller’s window.
Even here he was not free from molestation. A couple of slatternly young bare-headed girls, with roguish looks and arms akimbo, stationed themselves near by, and began to criticise and quiz him.
“My conscience!” said one, “sich a bonnie laddie! Look at the rosy cheeks o’ him. He’s ane o’ them, Tibbie. He’s gaun to compete for a birsary. Muckle luck to ye, laddie!”
“He comes fae (from) the country, Sally. Look at his blue ribbit stockins, his short breeks, and awfu’ sheen (shoes). I’m sayin’, Geordie, gin (if) ye dae (do) tak’ a birsary, be sere (sure) to come in and lat us ken. We’ll gie ye the nicest cup o’ tey (tea) ever ye drank in a’ your born days.”
And so they kept on for fully fifteen minutes; but Sandie was not to be drawn; he never even smiled, but at length sauntered quietly away.
He had to endure more chaff when he joined his fellow-competitors at the great hall-door.
“Behold, gentlemen,” cried one unwholesome-chafted brat, pointing to Sandie,—“Behold before you Peter M‘Tavish, Esq., from the braes of Glen Foudland. Look to your laurels, lads. Peter means to carry all before him and cabbage the first bursary!”