With mock solemnity Jake turned to Willie. 'In case o' yer decease, wud ye no like to leave a lovin' message for the aunt we've heard ye blessin' noo an' then?'
'To pot wi' her!' muttered Willie.
A high falsetto voice from the gathering' audience cried: 'Oh, ye bad boy, come here till I skelp ye!'—and there was a general laugh, in which the hapless object did not join.
'Ach, dinna torment him,' Macgregor said impulsively.
While willing hands fixed the gloves on the combatants the necessary floor space was cleared. There were numerous offers of the services of seconds, but the self-constituted master of ceremonies, Jake, vetoed all formalities.
'Let them dae battle in their ain fashion,' said he. 'It'll be mair fun for us. But it's understood that first blood ends it. Are ye ready, lads? Then get to wark. Nae hittin' ablow the belt.'
By this time Macgregor was beginning to feel amused. The sight of
Willie and himself in the big gloves tickled him.
'Come on, Wullie,' he called cheerfully.
'Am I a leear?' Willie demanded.
'Ye are!—but ye canna help it.'