He turned to discover Willie Thomson. At no time in the whole course of their friendship had he felt a keener desire to hit Willie on his impudent nose. “Naething,” he muttered shortly. “Are ye gaun hame?”
“Ay,” said Willie, noting the other’s discomposure, but not referring to it directly. “This isna yer usual road hame.”
“Depends whaur I’m comin’ frae,” returned Macgregor, quickening his pace. “Ha’e ye got a job yet, Wullie?” he enquired more graciously.
“I tried yin the day, but it’s no’ gaun to suit me. But I’ve earned ninepence. I can len’ ye thon thruppence, if ye like.”
“Aw, I’m no’ needin’ it noo.”
“Weel, ha’e a ceegarette.” Willie produced a yellow packet.
“Na, I’m no’ smokin’, Wullie.”
“What’s wrang wi’ ye?”
“Naething.... What sort of job was ye tryin’?”
Willie told him, and thereafter proceeded to recount as many grievances as there had been hours in his working day. Macgregor encouraged him to enter into all sorts of detail, so that home was reached without reference to the shop window which had caused him amusement.