“Please––please, sir,––that was a nice song and mother says would you sing it to us at our social to––to-night?”
“Sing it,––of course I’ll sing it. Just you tell your Uncle Jim where to come, and I’ll be there. What social is it, bairnie?”
“Please––it’s the Salvation Army.”
“Oh-h!” groaned Jim, clutching at his forelock. But he held manfully to his contract. “What time would ye like me to be there, lassie?”
“Mother says, please nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock at the barracks! Right you are! I’ll be there, and I’ll sing ‘My Shadow.’”
“Please––and what is your name?” she inquired, in a business-like way.
“My name!––let me see,––oh, ay! Uncle Jim,––just plain Uncle Jim!”
“And you’ll come sure?” she asked.
“Yes, bairnie!––I’ll come sure.”