Wee MacGreegor (The Idler, 1903)/'Arms and the Boy'

UT it wis rale kind o' Mistress Purdie to mind Macgreegor's birthday," said Mrs. Robinson to her husband, who was critically examining a rather gaudily-covered little book entitled, "Patient Peter: or, The Drunkard's Son."

"Ay; it wis rale kind o' her," replied John, slowly and without much enthusiasm.

"Efter a'," she continued, endeavouring to do justice to her sister-in-law, whom she really disliked, "it's no' the present itsel' we've got to think o', but the speerit."

"Dod, but ye're richt there, wumman! There's nae want o' speerit aboot this book," he interrupted with a dry laugh. "'Patient Peter: or, the Drunkard's Son!' That's a bonny like book to gi'e til a wean!"

"Whisht, man!" said Lizzie, checking a smile. "Ye ken fine whit I meant. An' ye're no' to let on to Macgreegor ye dinna like it. Him an' wee Jeannie'll be in the noo." "Dis Macgreegor like it hissel'?"

"Weel, I daursay he wud ha'e liket somethin' else, John. He wantit to gi'e it till wee Joseph, the puir laddie that's been lyin' badly sic a lang while; but, of coorse, I wudna let him."

"Wee Joseph wudna be muckle the better o' this book, I'm thinkin'. But it wis unco' nice o' Macgreegor to think o' his puir wee freen. I'll ha'e to gi'e him an extra bawbee fur that."

"Na, na, John!" cried Lizzie.

"Whit fur no', dearie? I tell ye, I like when the wean thinks o' ither weans. Ay; an' fine ye like it yersel'!"

"Ah, but ye see"

"Aw, I ken ye think he audna be rewardit fur bein' kind. But I'm shair he wudna expec' any reward."

"Maybe no'. But"

"But, a' the same, I like to encourage him."

"Ay; that's a' richt, but"

Lizzie's remonstrance was here interrupted by the return of her son and daughter.

"Did ma doo like bein' ootbye wi' her big brither?" she cried, affectionately.

"Ay, Maw, she likes it," replied Macgregor, who, occasionally, was good enough to oblige his mother by taking the toddling Jeannie for a short walk up and down the street. "But she gangs awfu' slow," he added, as he relinquished the small fingers, "an' she's aye tumlin'." "She'll shin be rinnin' races wi' ye, Macgreegor," said his father, pleasantly.

"'Deed, ay!" said his mother. "Ye'll shin be rinnin' races wi' Greegy—eh, ma daurlin'?"

"Lassies canna rin fast," returned the boy. "Their legs is ower wake."

"I hope ye didna let yer sister fa'," his mother interposed, as she brushed a little dust from the child's lower garment.

"I canna help her coupin' whiles. Maw," said Macgregor, easily. "But I aye keep a grup o' her haun, an' I never let her fa' furrit—jist backwards; an' she jist sits doon, an' disna hurt hersel' ava'."

"No' hurtit," observed the mite, gravely.

"There, ye see!" said her brother, triumphantly.

"I'm shair he aye tak's guid care o' wee Jeannie," put in John, appealing to his wife.

"I'm shair I never said he didna," rejoined Lizzie, patting her boy's shoulder.

John's face assumed an expression of complete satisfaction. "Here, Macgreegor! Come ower here till I speak to ye," he cried, in a pleased voice.

Macgregor obeyed willingly, while his father fumbled in a pocket.

"John," whispered Lizzie, warningly. But John smiled merrily back to her, and then turned to his son. "I wis gaun to gi'e ye a bawbee, Macgreegor, but I ha'ena yin, so here a penny instead."

"Oh, John!" murmured his wife.

"Thenk ye, Paw," said Macgregor, grinning. "D'ye ken whit it's fur, ma mannie?"

"Naw," replied Macgregor, who had already received a bright shilling as a birthday offering from his parent. (The bright shilling, however, had been promptly taken by his mother, much to his own disgust, to the savings bank, along with a half-crown received from Grandfather Purdie.)

"Aweel, it's fur thinkin' o' gi'ein' yer book to puir wee Joseph," said John, stroking the back of the boy's head.

"I wud like fine to gi'e it to Joseph, Paw. Maw said I wisna," said Macgregor, with a glance at his mother, whose attention was apparently entirely taken up by her daughter.

"Yer Maw thinks it's no jist the thing to gi'e awa' a present," John explained; adding, "an' I daresay she's richt."

"Whit wey, Paw?"

"Weei, ye see, whit wud ye dae if yer Aunt Purdie cam' to the hoose an' speirt if ye liket the book, an' if ye wis keepin' it nice an' clean? Yer Maw'll ha'e to pit a cover on it fur ye. Eh, Lizzie?"

"Ay, I'll dae that," his wife answered pleasantly. She felt that, on the whole, her man was behaving really discreetly.

"But I'm no' heedin' aboot the book. Paw, an' wee Joseph likes readin'," said Macgregor. "An' it's a daft story onywey."

"Hoo can ye say that, Macgreegor, when ye've never read it?" his mother inquired.

"I've read some o' it. There's naebody gets kilt in it. I like stories about folk gettin' their heids cut off or stabbit through an' through wi' swords an' spears. An' there's nae wild beasts. I like stories about black men gettin' ett up, an' white men killin' lions an' teagurs an' bears an'"

"Whisht, whisht, laddie," cried Lizzie.

"Aw, the wean's fine," said John, smiling. "Dod, I doot I like thur kin' o' stories best masel'."

"But I'm no' heedin aboot this book," Macgregor went on, regarding the volume with some contempt. "It's jist aboot a laddie ca'ed Peter, an' his Maw's deid, an' his Paw's an' awfu' bad man, an' he's aye strikin' Peter an' gi'ein' him crusts to eat, an' Peter jist eats the crusts an' asks a blessin' furbye, an' in the end he gangs ootbye when it's snawin' to luk fur his Paw, an' gets drookit, an' gets the cauld in his kist, an' dees, an' his Paw gets rin ower wi' a lorrie, an' dees, tae; but Peter gets tooken up to the guid place, and his Paw gets tooken down to the"

"Whisht, Macgreegor," cried his mother again. "Ye're not to"

"It's in the book, Maw."

"Weel, weel, dearie, it's a sad story that. But ye wud be gey sair vexed fur puir Peter deein'."

"Naw, I wisna."

"Aw, Macgreegor!" said Lizzie, reproachfully, while her husband barely checked a guffaw.

"Well, it's no' a true story, Maw."

"Hoo dae ye ken that?"

"I ken it fine."

"But mony a laddie's got nae Maw—puir thing!—an' a bad Paw, an' has to eat crusts."

"Ay; but they dinna ask a blessin' fur the crusts."

John jumped up and went to the window, where he stood with his hands to his mouth and his shoulders heaving.

"I'm vexed to hear ye speakin' like that, Macgreegor," said his mother sternly.

"Whit wey. Maw?"

"Because ye sudna mak' a mock o' sic things. An' maybe the laddie in the book wis gled to get the crusts."

"But it's a' lees aboot him. I dinna believe a word."

"Haud yer tongue, Macgreegor! That's no' the wey to speak aboot the present yer Aunt Purdie sent ye."

"But I wud rayther ha'e gotten a pistol fur firin' peas."

"Mercy me! I'm thenkfu' ye didna get that! Ye wud shin ha'e us a' blin'."

"I wudna fire it at ony o' you yins," he graciously returned, with a glance at his relatives.

"Na, na," said Lizzie, not unkindly. "That's no' the kin' o' toy fur a laddie. An' onyway, there's nae use wishin' fur whit ye canna get, dearie. Yer paw wudna like ye to ha'e ony kin' o' fireairms aboot ye, wud ye, John?"

John pretended not to hear.

"He micht pit oot wee Jeannie's e'en in mistak'," she continued. "Every day ye read i' the papers o'"

"I wudna!" exclaimed Macgregor, indignantly. "Wud I, Jeannie?" he cried, appealing to his little sister.

"Ay," cheerfully assented the cherub, who had been too busy playing with some blocks of wood on the floor to pay any attention to the conversation of her elders. "Ach! she disna ken whit she's sayin'!" exclaimed the boy, in disgust.

"There's mony a true word spoken in eegnorance, as Solymon says," observed Lizzie, sagely.

"I wisht I had a pistol," he muttered, as if he had not heard her.

"Well, laddie, I've tell't ye ye canna get a pistol. Whaur wud ye get the money to buy it, eh?"

"It wud jist cost thruppence, an' I cud get the money oot the bank."

"Na, na. The money maun bide in the bank, Macgreegor."

"I dinna like ma money bidin' in the bank, Maw."

"Ye'll like it some day. John, come ower here an' tell Macgreegor a story."

John left the window, but his son put on his bonnet and moved to the door.

"Whaur are ye gaun, Macgreegor?" inquired Lizzie.

"Ootbye."

"Ay; but I want to ken whaur ye' re gaun."

"To see wee Joseph."

"Aw, that's a guid laddie!" said Lizzie, and John beamed approval. "But ye're no' to bide lang. An' when ye come back I'm gaun to write to yer Aunt Purdie to tell her ye like yer book."

"But I dinna like it, Maw."

Lizzie was going to speak, but John, with a laugh he could not restrain, interposed, saying: "Weel, weel, we'll see aboot the letter when Macgreegor comes back." Macgregor returned to the table, and picked up "Patient Peter."

"Can I gi'e wee Joseph the len' o' ma book?" he inquired.

"Dod, ay!" said John, delighted.

"'Deed, ay!" said Lizzie, also pleased. "But bide a wee, an' I'll pit a cover on it."

She opened a drawer in the dresser, wherein she methodically placed odds and ends, and drew forth a sheet of tough brown paper, in which she encased the covers of "Patient Peter."

"That'll keep it clean," she said. "Tell wee Joseph to pit a bit paper at the place, an' no' to turn doon the pages."

"Aw, Maw," said Macgregor, and departed.

When he had been gone a couple of minutes John turned to his wife, and said diffidently: "It's a peety the wean's disappintit wi' the book."

"It is that," said Lizzie. "But it wudna dae to let him get everythin' he wants."

"But it's his birthday, woman. I—I wud like fine to gi'e him a pistol."

"Weel, I never!"

"The pistol he wants isna dangerous, Lizzie."

"I'm no' shair o' that!"

"It's just like a pope-gun, ye ken."

"Is't?"

"Ay. It wudna hurt a flee."

"Flees is no' that easy hit."

John laughed heartily. "Dod, but ye had me there! But wud ye no' let me buy the wean a pistol? I'll see he disna dae ony hairm. 'Deed, I mind fine when I wis a wean, I aye wantit a gun or a pistol." "I dinna think it wud be wice to gi'e yin to Macgreegor. Ye never ken whit he'll dae."

"Hoots, toots! Say the word, an' I'll rin an' buy him yin, Lizzie. Thon book wisna the thing to gi'e a wean ava'."

"Ye sudna say that, John. But, a' the same, I dinna think it wis a vera nice book. Nae doot Mistress Purdie meant weel," she added, grudgingly. "Weel, John, if ye'll promise no' to let him be reckless, I'll say nae mair aboot it. Awa' an' buy the pistol!"

And John went without delay.

As he ascended the stairs on his return in the dusk, John heard a click and something stung his cheek. This was followed by a badly stifled crackle of laughter which he recognised.

"Macgreegor!" he exclaimed.

For a moment there was dead silence; then someone descended the flight of stairs above him.

"I thocht ye wis a brigand, Paw," said his son. "I didna hit ye, did I?"

"Ay, ye hit me!"

"Aw, Paw!" The regret in the boy's voice was slightly intense. "Whaur did I hit ye?"

John put a finger to his cheek.

"I wis aimin' at yer hert," said Macgregor. "I'm glad I missed."

John wondered what he should say.

"I—I didna mean to hurt ye, Paw," murmured his son. "I—I didna mean it."

"But whit did ye hit me wi'? Dod, it wis gey nippy!"

"It wis a pea, Paw."

"Ha'e ye gotten a pistol?"

"Ay. It's wee Joseph's. He wis gaun to gi'e me it fur the book; but noo, I jist got the len' o't. I'm vexed I hurtit ye."

"Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair aboot that, Macgreegor, but ye mauna fire at folk like thon again. Mind that, or ye'll maybe get the nick."

"I'll never dae't again, Paw."

"A'richt, ma mannie. But ye best rin ower to wee Joseph an' gi'e him back his pistol."

"But he'll no' ha'e read the book yet," objected Macgregor.

"Never heed. Let him keep the book till he's read it; but gi'e him back his pistol."

John spoke firmly, and Macgregor felt that he must obey.

"I'll gang up to the hoose," said his father, who had great dificulty in keeping his secret.

Ten minutes later, Macgregor, having dutifully accomplished his errand, reached home to find his father firing peas at a mustard tin on the mantel-piece, and his mother applauding or commiserating the sportsman.

John immediately placed the weapon in the boy's hands. "There, ma mannie," he said, "there's a pistol fur ye."

Macgreegor looked at his mother.

She nodded. "Be awfu' careful' noo, dearie," she said.

Somehow the youngster was touched. "I'm no heedin' about it, Maw! I'm no awfu' heedin' about it!" he cried, and ran to her arms.

Later on he pointed out that it wasn't quite such a good one as wee Joseph's.