“Weel, I like to be as honest as I can—ootside o’ business. If ye dinna turn up, I’ll forgive ye. Noo——”
“Oh, I’ll turn up. It wud tak’ mair nor your aunt an’ uncle——”
“Tits, man!” she cried impatiently, “I’ll be late wi’ her tea. Adieu for the present.” She waved her hand and fled to the living-room.
Macgregor went home happy in a subdued fashion. He found a letter awaiting him. It was from Grandfather Purdie; it reminded him that his seventeenth birthday was on the coming Monday, contained a few kindly words of advice, and enclosed a postal order for ten shillings. Hitherto the old man’s gift had been a half-crown, which had seemed a large sum to the boy. But ten shillings!—it would be hard to tell whether Macgregor’s feeling of manliness or of gratitude was the greater.
Mrs. Robinson was not a little disturbed when her son failed to hand over the money to her to take care of for him, as had been the custom in the past, and her husband had some difficulty in persuading her to “let the laddie be in the meantime.”
Macgregor had gone to his room to make the most elaborate toilet possible.
“You trust him, an’ he’ll trust you,” said John. “Dinna be aye treatin’ him like a wean.”
“It’s no’ a case o’ no’ trustin’ him,” she returned a little sharply. “Better treat him like a wean than let him think he’s a man afore his time.”
“It’s no’ his money in the bank that tells what a chap’s made o’, Lizzie. Let us wait an’ see what he does wi’ it. Mind ye, it’s his to dae what he likes wi’. Wait, till the morn, an’ then I’ll back ye up in gettin’ him to put a guid part o’ it, onyway, in the bank. No’ that I think ony backin’ up’ll be necessary. If he doesna want to put it in the bank, he’ll dae it to please us. I’ll guarantee that, wife.”
“If I had your heart an’ you had ma heid,” she said with a faint smile, “I daresay we wud baith be near perfec’, John. Aweel, I’m no’ gaun to bother the laddie noo. But”—seriously—“he’s been oot an awfu’ lot at nicht the last week or twa.”