“Aw, mither, now it is the terrible auld sport ye are. She drags me out to all these things.” His eyes twinkled at Maitland. “I can't find time for any study.”
“Hoots ye and ye're study. A doot a rale heartening scramble on the ice wad dae ye mair guid than an oor wi' yon godless Jew buddie.”
“She means Marx, of course,” said McNish, in answer to Maitland's look of perplexity. “She has no use for him.”
“But the tickets, Malcolm,” insisted his mother.
“Well, mither, A'll confess I clean forgot them. Ye see,” he hurried to say, “A was that fashed over yon Committee maitter—”
“Committee maitter!” exclaimed the old lady indignantly. “Did I not tell ye no to heed yon screamin' English cratur wi' his revolutionary nonsense?”
“She means Simmons,” interjected Malcolm with a little smile. “He means well, mither, but A'm vexed aboot the tickets.”
“Mrs. McNish,” said Maitland, “I happen to have two tickets that I can let you have.” For an instant she hesitated.
“We can find a way in, I think, Mr. Maitland,” said Malcolm, forestalling his mother's answer. But with simple dignity his mother put him aside.
“A shall be verra pleased indeed to have the tickets, provided you can spare them, Mr. Maitland. Never mind, noo, Malcolm. A ken well what ye're thinkin'. He's gey independent and his mind is on thae revolutionary buddies o' his. A'm aye tellin' him this is nae land for yon nonsense. Gin we were in Rooshie, or Germany whaur the people have lived in black slavery or even in the auld land whaur the fowk are haudden doon wi' generations o' class bondage, there might be a chance for a revolutionary. But what can ye dae in a land whaur the fowk are aye climbin' through ither, noo up, noo down, noo maister, noo man? Ye canna make Canadians revolutionaries. They are a' on the road to be maisters. Malcolm is a clever loon but he has a wee bee in his bonnet.” The old lady smiled quizzically at her big, serious-faced son.