Wee MacGreegor (The Idler, 1903)/'Ships That Pass'

HE small boy in the trim sailor suit, broad-brimmed straw hat with "H.M.S. Valiant" in gold letters on the dark-blue ribbon, spotless white collar with gold anchors at the corners, and fine shoes and stockings, stood helplessly on the sunlit shore, and with misty eyes gazed hopelessly at his toy yacht drifting out to sea.

"Whit wey dae ye no' wade in efter yer boat?" demanded Macgregor, who for half-an-hour had been envying the owner his pretty craft from a little distance, and who now approached the disconsolate youngster.

The latter glanced at his questioner, but made no reply.

"Gaun! Tak' aff yer shoes an' stockin's quick, or ye'll loss yer boat," said Macgregor, excitedly. He looked about for a rowing-boat which might lend assistance, but none was visible in that quiet part of the bay. "Gaun! Wade!" he repeated. "Are ye feart?"

"Mamma said I wasn't to wade," said the alleged member of the crew of "H.M.S. Valiant."

"Whit wey?"

"She said it was too cold." He gave a sniff of despair as his eyes turned to his toy.

"Ach! It's no' that cauld. I'll wade fur yer boat, if ye like."

"Oh!" It was all he could say, but he looked with gratitude at Macgregor, who was already unlacing one of his stout boots.

A minute later Macgregor had rolled his breeches up his bare legs, and checking an exclamation at the first contact with the water, was wading gingerly after the model yacht.

"It's awfu' warm," he remarked, with a shiver.

"Don't get your trousers wet," said the other. "Nae fears!" returned Macgregor, stepping into a small depression and soaking several inches of his nether garments. "I'm no' heedin' onywey," he said bravely.

"You can't get it. It's too deep," cried the anxious one on the shore. "Oh, my!"

The exclamation was caused by Macgregor taking a plunge forward, soaking his clothes still further, but grabbing successfully at the boat. Then he turned and waded cautiously to the shore, and presented the owner with his almost lost property, remarking—

"There yer boat. Whit wey did ye no' keep a grup o' the string?"

The other clasped his treasure, and gazed with speechless thankfulness at the deliverer.

"It's a daft-like thing to be sailin' a boat if ye dinna wade," observed Macgregor, sitting down on a rock and proceeding to dry his feet and legs with his bonnet. Suddenly he desisted from the operation, as if struck by an idea, and getting up again, said easily—

"I'll help ye to sail yer boat, if ye like."

The other youngster looked doubtful for a moment, for Macgregor's previous remark had offended him somewhat.

"Come on," said Macgregor, with increasing eagerness. "You can be the captain, an' I'll be the sailor. Eh?"

Evidently overcome by the flattering proposal, the owner of the yacht nodded, and allowed the proposer to take the craft from his hands.

"My! It's an unco fine boat!" Macgregor observed, admiringly. "Whaur got ye it?"

"Uncle William gave me it," replied the other, beginning to find his tongue, "and it's called the 'Britannia.'"

"The whit?"

"The 'Britannia.'"

"Aw, ay. It's no' an awfu' nice name; but it's a fine boat. I wisht I had as fine a boat. Whit's yer name?" he inquired, wading into the water. "Mines is Macgreegor Robison."

"Charlie Fortune."

"That's a queer-like name. Whaur d'ye come frae?"

Charlie looked puzzled.

"D'ye come frae Glesca? Eh?"

"Yes." "I never seen ye afore. Whaur d'ye bide in Glesca?"

"Kelvinside. Royal Gardens, Kelvinside."

"Aw, ye'll be gentry," said Macgregor, a little scornfully.

"I don't know," said Charlie. "Are you gentry?"

"Nae fears! I wudna be gentry fur onythin'."

Charlie did not quite understand. Presently he asked shyly: "Has your mamma got a house at Rothesay?" "Naw. But Granpaw Purdie's got a hoose, an' I'm bidin' wi' him. Hoo lang are ye bidin' in Rothesay?"

"Three months." "My! I wisht I wis you! I'm gaun hame next week. But I'll be back again shin. Granpaw Purdie likes when I'm bidin' wi' him. Thon's him ower thonder." And Macgregor indicated the distant figure of the old man who sat on a flat boulder placidly smoking and reading a morning paper.

Mr. Purdie reminded Charlie of an old gardener occasionally employed by his wealthy father; but the boy made no remark, and Macgregor placed the boat in the water, crying out with delight as her sails caught a light breeze.

"Gang ower to thon rock," commanded Macgregor, forgetting in his excitement that, being the sailor, it was not his place to give orders, "an' I'll gar the boat sail to ye."

Charlie obediently made for a spur of rock that entered the water a few yards, and waited there patiently while his new acquaintance managed the yacht, not perhaps very skilfully, but entirely to his own satisfaction.

"I'm daein' fine, am I no'?" exclaimed Macgregor, jubilantly, as he approached the captain, who, on his way along the spur had soaked his nice brown shoes in a shallow pool, and who was now crouching on a slippery rock, fearful lest his mother should come down to the shore and catch him.

"I'm daein' fine, am I no'?" repeated Macgregor.

"Yes," returned Charlie, rather dejectedly.

"Weel, I'll tak' the boat ower thonder, an' sail it back to ye again."

"I wish I could sail the boat, too," said Charlie.

"But ye canna sail if ye canna get takin' yer bare feet. But never heed. Captains never tak' their bare feet," said Macgregor, cheeringly, wading off with the yacht.

He enjoyed himself tremendously for nearly an hour, at the end of which period Charlie announced, a trifle timidly, that it was time for him to go home.

"Wull ye be here in the efternune?" inquired Macgregor, leaving the water on bluish feet and relinquishing the "Britannia" with obvious regret.

Charlie shook his head. "I'm going a drive with mamma."

"Are ye gaun in the bus? Granpaw whiles tak's me fur a ride to"

"Mamma has a carriage," said Charlie, without meaning to offend.

"I thocht ye wis gentry," said Macgregor, with a pitying gaze at Charlie. There was a pause, and then his eyes turned again to the yacht. "Wull ye be here the morn?"

"I don't know," said Charlie, who wasn't sure that he liked Macgregor's manner of speech, but who still felt grateful to him and was also impressed by his sturdiness.

"Ye micht try an' come. An' tell yer Maw ye want to tak' yer bare feet, an' we'll baith be sailors. Eh?"

"I'll try. Thank you for—for saving my boat."

"Aw, never heed that. Jist try an' come the morn, an' I'll come early an' build a pier fur the boat to come to."

"I'll try," said Charlie once more, and with a smile on his small delicate face, he hurried up the beach.

Macgregor warmed his legs on the sunny shingle, and got into his boots and stockings; then rejoined his grandfather, hoping the old man would not notice the damp condition of his breeches.

Mr. Purdie laid down his paper, and smilingly looked over his spectacles at his grandson.

"I see ye've been makin' a new freen', Macgreegor. Whit laddie wis thon?"

"Chairlie—I furget his ither name. He lost his boat, an' I tuk ma bare feet an' gaed in an' got it back fur him."

Mr. Purdie beamed with pride and patted the boy's shoulder. "'Deed, that wis rale kind o' ye, ma mannie. He wud be gled to get back his boat, an' he wud be obleeged to yersel' fur gettin' it. I'm thinkin' ye deserve a penny," and out came the old man's old purse.

"Thenk ye, Granpaw. An' then I sailed his boat fur him. He cudna sail it hissel', fur his Maw winna let him tak' his bare feet. She maun be an' auld daftie!" "Whisht, whisht!" said Mr. Purdie, reprovingly. "But whit like is Chairlie?"

"Och, he's gey peely-wally, an' I think he's gentry; but his boat's an' awfu' fine yin."

"Whit gars ye think he's gentry?"

"He bides in Kelvinside, an' his Maw rides in a cairriage, an' he speaks like Aunt Purdie when she's haein' a pairty."

At the last reason Mr. Purdie gave a badly suppressed chuckle. "Weel, weel, Macgreegor, ye're gettin' on. Ye're the yin to notice things."

"Ay; I'm gey fly, Granpaw," said Macgregor.

"But mind an' no' lead Chairlie intil ony mischief," Mr. Purdie went on. "An' yer no' to temp' him to tak' his bare feet if his mither disna want him to dae it. Noo, it's time we wis gaun hame to wur denner. Gi'e's yer haun', ma mannie."

Next day, when Macgregor had almost given up hope, and stood disconsolately eyeing the pier he had constructed as promised, Charlie arrived, panting, with the "Britannia" in his arms.

"I thocht ye wisna comin'," said Macgregor.

"Mamma didn't want me to play on the shore to-day."

"Whit wey?"

"I don't know."

"Did ye rin awa' frae her the noo?"

"No. But Uncle William came in, and he asked her for me, and then she said I could go for half-an-hour. But I'm not to get wading."

"Are ye no'? I wudna like to be you," said Macgregor, dabbling his already bare feet in the water. "Weel, ye can be the man on the pier. Some o' the stanes is a wee thing shoogly, but ye'll jist ha'e to luk whaur ye pit yer feet, Chairlie."

Charlie, after a little hesitation, walked gingerly down the narrow passage of loose stones which terminated with a large flat one, where he found a fairly sure foothold.

"That's it!" cried Macgregor, wading out from shore till the water was within half-an-inch of his clothing. "Ye're jist like a pier-man."

Charlie was so gratified that he nearly fell off his perch. Very cautiously he placed his model afloat, and the wind carried it out to sea, Macgregor moving along so as to intercept it.

Macgregor wanted to have the "Britannia" sail back to its owner, but the mystery of navigation was too much for him, so he carried it to Charlie, who set it off again.

After all, it wasn't such bad fun being a pier-man, and in about ten minutes the youngsters were as friendly as could be. And they spent a glorious hour-and-a-quarter. "Wull ye be here the morn?" asked Macgregor, when his new chum said, rather fearfully, that he must depart.

"Yes." There was a flush on Charlie's face that ought to have done his mother good to see. "Yes," he repeated eagerly. "And I'll bring my other boat."

"My! Hae ye anither boat, Chairlie?"

Charlie nodded. "Not as big as the 'Britannia,'" he said. He smiled shyly at his friend. "I—I'm going to give it to you, Macgreegor," he stammered, pronouncing the name as he had heard it from its owner.

"Ach, ye're jist sayin' that!" cried Macgregor, overcome with astonishment.

"Really and truly," said Charlie.

"Ye—ye're faur ower kind," whispered Macgregor, fairly at a loss for once in his little life. He did not know that Charlie had never had a real boy companion, for Charlie, between his clever father, his would-be "fashionable" mother, and his plaintive tutor, was being brought up to be a "gentleman" and nothing more.

Feeling and looking more awkward and awkward, Charlie took the liberty of touching Macgregor's arm between the wrist and the elbow.

"Please take the boat," he murmured.

Macgregor fumbled in his pocket. "I'll gi'e ye ma penny," he said, producing it.

But Charlie drew back, and somehow Macgregor understood he had done something stupid.

Charlie, with a poor smile, ran off, and Macgregor, after a curious gaze after him, resumed his boots and stockings.

The day following was wet as it can be on the west coast of Scotland, and in spite of Macgregor's open yearning for his new toy, his grandparents would not allow him out of doors.

"Maybe Chairlie'll be there wi' ma boat," he pleaded.

But Granpaw Purdie gently said: "It's no' vera likely;" and Granmaw Purdie remarked: "Ye wud jist get yer daith o' cauld, ma dearie."

But the morning after broke brilliantly—too brilliantly, perhaps, to last.

At ten o'clock Mr. Purdie was sitting on his favourite rock, his pipe in his mouth, his specs on his nose, and his newspaper before him. "I wud like to come an' see yer freen' Chairlie," he had said, when his grandson left him; "I like weans that's kind til ither weans." And Macgregor had promised to wave a signal when Charlie came with the boats. (Mr. Purdie had filled his pockets with sweets for the occasion.)

Macgregor reached the appointed place, which seemed so familiar, although it was only his third visit, and, his friend not being in sight, proceeded to repair the pier which several tides had somewhat disarranged.

He became so busy and so interested that he did not hear the sound of flying feet until they were close upon him. Then he rose from his stooping posture, and beheld Charlie with a beautiful—such a beautiful—little boat in his arms.

"Here's your boat, Macgreegor!" gasped Charlie.

"My!" cried Macgregor, taking it. "Oh, Chairlie, ye're awfu"

"Mamma said I wasn't to play with you any more; but—but I ran away, and"

"Whit wey?"

Charlie shook his head. "I like you," he panted. "I never had another little boy to—to play with. I—I"

"Charlie come here at once!"

"Good-bye, Macgreegor," said Charlie, and, turning, ran some fifty yards to the elegantly dressed lady who had called him.

"She's gentry," said Macgregor to himself; but he, of course, did not hear her say crossly to Charlie: "What do you mean by speaking to that horrid boy after I told you never to speak to him again?"

Macgregor, after waiting awhile in the hope that Charlie would return, hastened towards his grandfather to exhibit his prize, but as he proceeded his pace slackened.

"Ye've got yer boat, Macgreegor!" the old man exclaimed. "Dod, but it's a bonny boat! It wis unco kind o' Chairlie to gi'e ye that. Bless the laddie. But whit wey did ye no' wave on me? Eh? Is Chairlie waitin' ower thonder?"

Macgregor laid his boat on the ground. "Chairlie ran awa'. He said his Maw didna want him to play wi' me ony mair, Granpaw, whit wey?"

"Whit's that ye're saying, Macgreegor?"

"Chairlie said his Maw didna want him to play wi' me ony mair. I think she's gentry. She's an' auld footer. I like Chairlie."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Purdie, suddenly. Then he uttered several words, wildly.

Macgregor gaped. Never before had he heard his grandfather use such words.

But quarter-of-an-hour later he was sailing his boat—how well it sailed!—with love in his young heart for Charlie Fortune.