“I asked him for a job!”
“A job!” exclaimed Macgregor. “In—in yin o’ his shops?”
“Na; in his chief office.”
“My! ye’ve a neck—I mean, ye’re no’ afraid.”
“Ye dinna get muckle in this world wi’oot askin’ for it.”
“What did he say?” the boy enquired, after a pause.
“He said the job was mine as sune as I was ready to tak’ it. Ye see, I tell’t him I didna want to start till I had ma shorthand an’ typewritin’ perfec’. That’ll tak’ me a few months yet.”
“I didna ken ye could typewrite.”
“Oh, I’ve been workin’ at it for near a year, but I can only get practisin’ afore breakfast an’ whiles in the evenin’. Still, I think I’ll be ready for the office aboot the spring, if no’ earlier.”
Macgregor regarded her with sorrow mingled with admiration. “But what way dae ye want to leave here?” he cried, all at once realising what the change would mean to him.