“Na. What kin’ o’ job dae ye want?”
“Onything,” said Willie, and added quickly, “An’ I’ll stick to it this time, if I get the chance.”
After a short pause——“My fayther got ye a job before,” said Macgregor.
“I ken. But I wud stick——”
“Honest?”
Willie drew his hand across his throat.
“Weel,” said Macgregor, “I’ll tell ma fayther, an’ ye can gang an’ see him at the works on Monday.”
“I’ll be there. Ye’re a dacent chap, Macgreegor.”
Neither seemed to have anything more to say to the other, but their parting was cordial enough.
Next day, Sunday, was wet and stormy, and there was no afternoon stroll of father and son to the docks. John was flattered by Macgregor’s ill-concealed disappointment—it was like old times. Perhaps he would not have been less flattered had he known his boy’s desire to tell him out of doors a thing that somehow could not be uttered in the house. Macgregor spent the afternoon in studying secretly an old price-list of Purdie’s Stores.