'No dashed likely! She's never sent the postal order I asked her for. If I had got it, I wud ha'e payed what I'm owin' ye, Macgreegor. By heavens, I wud! I'll tak' ma oath I——'
'Aweel, never heed aboot that,' Macgregor said, soothingly. 'Send her a post caird an' let me get peace for three meenutes.'
'Ye canna get peace in this,' said Willie, with a glance round the tumultuous billet.
'I can—if ye haud yer silly tongue.' Macgregor thereupon got his pad and envelopes (a gift from Miss Tod), squatted on his bed, and proceeded to gnaw his pencil. The voice of the sergeant was heard ordering the men to hurry up.
'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' said Willie, sitting down at his friend's elbow. 'I'll bet ye a' I owe ye to a bob it's Flanders. Ye see, I'll maybe get shot, an' I dinna want to dee in debt. An' I'll send the auld cat a caird wi' something nice on it, to please ye . . . . Eh?'
'Aw, onything ye like, but for ony sake clay up! Shift!' cried the distracted Macgregor.
'Weel gi'e's a fag . . . . an' a match,' said Willie.
He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidly removed himself.
The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced by Macgregor are sacred. He would never write anything more boyish and loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those 'few lines' to his mother and sweetheart. There was no time left for posting them when the order came to fall in, but he anticipated an opportunity at one of the stations on the journey south.
Out in the sunshine stood the hundreds of lads whose training had been so brief that some carried ammunition for the first time. There were few grave faces, though possibly some of the many grins were more reflected than original. Yet there was a fine general air of eagerness, and at the word 'attention' the varied expressions gave place to one of determination.