At these words Macgregor went a dull red, and set down his cup with a clatter.
“Ha’e ye burnt yer mooth?” asked John, with quick sympathy.
“Naw,” was the ungracious reply. “It’s naebody’s business whether I tak’ the car or tramp it. See’s the butter, Jeannie.”
There was a short silence. An outbreak of temper on Macgregor’s part was not of frequent occurrence. Then John turned the conversation to a big fire that had taken place in Glasgow the previous night, and the son finished his meal in silence.
At the earliest possible moment Macgregor left the kitchen. For some reason or other the desire to get away from his elders was paramount. A few minutes later he was in the little room which belonged to him and Jimsie. On the inside of the door was a bolt, screwed there by himself some months ago. He shot it now. With a towel that hung on the door he rubbed his wet face savagely. He had washed his hands in turpentine ere leaving the scene of his work.
He donned a clean collar. As he was fixing his Sunday tie a summons came to the door. He went and opened it, looking cross.
“Weel, what are ye wantin’, Jimsie?”
“Did ye bring ma putty, Macgreegor?”
“Och, I clean forgot.”
Jimsie’s face fell. “Ye promised,” he complained.