* * * * *
As Macgregor turned out of the tenement close he encountered his one-time chum, Willie Thomson. Macgregor might not have admitted it to his parents, but during the last few weeks he had been finding Willie’s company less and less desirable.
Willie now put precisely the same question that Mrs. Robinson had put a minute earlier.
“I’ll maybe see ye later,” was Macgregor’s evasive response, delivered awkwardly. He passed on.
“Ha’e ye a ceegarette on ye?” cried Willie, taking a step after him.
“Na.”
“Ye’re in a queer hurry.”
“I’ll maybe see ye later,” said Macgregor again, increasing his speed in a curious guilty fashion.
Willie made no attempt to overtake him. He, too, had been finding a certain staleness in the old friendship—especially since Macgregor had stopped his purchases of cigarettes. Willie was as often out of employment as in it, but he did not realise that he was in danger of becoming a mere loafer and sponge. Yet he was fond of Macgregor.
Macgregor passed from the quiet street wherein he lived into one of Glasgow’s highways, aglow with electric light, alive with noise out of all proportion to its traffic. He continued to walk swiftly, his alert eyes betraying his eagerness, for the distance of a couple of blocks. Then into another quiet street he turned, and therein his pace became slower and slower, until it failed altogether. Beneath a gas lamp he questioned his watch, his expression betokening considerable anxiety.