Lay Morals, and Other Papers

by Robert Louis Stevenson

‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; ‘wha’re ye frae?’

‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie.

‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other again. ‘It’s unco het,’ said the boy.

‘Dooms het,’ says Francie.

‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other.

‘Francie,’ says he. ‘I’m young Montroymont. They ca’ me Heathercat.’

‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy. And there was another pause, while each rolled a stone under his foot.

‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a bawbee,’ cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket.

‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, with a sharp thrill of alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier boy.

‘Ye’re feared. Heathercat indeed!’ said Crozer, for among this infantile army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was resented by his rivals. And with that they separated.