'If ye dinna get leave sune, I'll be up at the barracks to ha'e a word wi' the general.'
'It'll likely be a camp, mither.'
'Aweel, camp or barracks, see an' keep yer feet cosy, an' dinna smoke ower mony ceegarettes.' She fell to with her needle.
At the end of a long minute, Macgregor observed to the kettle: 'I tell't fayther what I done wi' the twa pound.'
'Did ye?'
'Ay. He—he was awfu' pleased.'
'Was he?'
Macgregor took a puff at his cold cigarette, and tried again. 'He said I was to tell ye he was pleased.'
'Oh, did he?'
'Never pleaseder in his life.'