Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 5

I'm a man," observed Macgregor, leaning against the knees of his father, who was enjoying an evening pipe before the kitchen fire—"when I'm a man, I'm gaun to be a penter."

"A penter?" echoed John. "D' ye hear whit Macgreegor's sayin', Lizzie?" he inquired of his wife.

Lizzie moistened her finger and thumb, twirled the end of a thread, and inserted it into the eye of a needle ere she replied. "Whit kin' o' a penter? Is 't pictur's ye' re wantin' to pent, Macgreegor?"

"Naw!" said her son, with great scorn. "I'm gaun to ha'e a big pot o' pent an' a big brush, an' I'm gaun to staun' on a ladder, an' pent wi' white pent, an' rid pent, an' bew pent, an'"

"Aw, ye're gaun to be a hoose-penter, Macgreegor," said his father.

"Ay. But I'm gaun to pent shopes tae. An' I'm gaun to ha'e big dauds of potty fur stickin' in holes. I like potty. Here a bit!" And Macgregor produced from his trousers-pocket a lump of the grayish, plastic substance.

"Feech!" exclaimed Lizzie, in disgust. "Whaur got ye that? Ye'll jist file yer claes wi' the nesty stuff."

"Wullie Thomson whiles gets potty frae his paw. Wullie's paw's a jiner."

"I thocht you an' Wullie had cast oot," said John. "Ha'e ye been makin' freens wi' him again?"

"Naw But I seen him wi' the potty, an' I askit him for a daud."

"It wis rale nice o' the laddie to gi'e ye a bit," remarked Lizzie, looking up from her seam.

"He didna gi'e it, maw. I tuk it frae him."

"Aw, Macgreegor!" said Lizzie, shaking her head, reproachfully.

"Wullie's bigger nor me, maw."

"Ay; but he's gey wake i' the legs."

"I hut him, an' he tummilt; an' I jist tuk hauf his putty," said Macgregor, unconcernedly.

John was about to laugh, when he caught his wife's eye.

"An' hoo wud ye like," she said, addressing her son, "if yer paw gi'ed ye potty, an' anither laddie cam' an'"

"Paw hasna ony potty."

John sniggered behind his hand.

"Weel," said Lizzie, casting her husband a severe look, and turning again to her son, "hoo wud ye like if yer paw gi'ed ye taiblet, an' anither laddie cam' an' tuk hauf o' 't awa'?"

"I wud gi'e him yin on the neb twicet!" said Macgregor, boldly, going over to the window to see the lamps being lighted.

"But if he hut yet an' knockit ye doon?"

"I wudna let him. Paw hasna gi'ed me taiblet fur a lang while," said the boy over his shoulder.

"Macgreegor," said his mother, solemnly, "I'm thinkin' ye're gettin' waur every day."

"Aw, the wean's fine, Lizzie," interposed John, softly.

"Haud yer tongue, John," retorted Lizzie, quietly. "The wean's no' fine! An' instead o' lauchin' at him an' makin' a pet o' him, ye ocht to be gi'ein' him a guid skelpin'."

"I've never skelpit a wean yet, an'"

"It's easy seen ye've never skelpit Macgreegor, John. Ye jist let him get his ain wey, an' he disna ken when he's misbehavin' hissel'. Weans needs to be checkit whiles."

"Aweel, whit dae ye want me to dae, Lizzie?"

"I want ye to punish Macgreegor for hittin' that puir speldron o' a laddie, Wullie Thomson, an' stealin' his potty," said Lizzie, in an undertone.

Macgregor came back from the window with the putty plastered over his nose.

"Paw, see ma neb!" he said, gayly, unaware of the conversation which had just passed concerning him.

John laughed loudly. "Dod, but ye've a braw neb the nicht, Macgreegor!"

"Tak' it aff this meenit!" cried Lizzie. "John, ye micht think shame o' yersel' to sit there lauchin' at his nesty tricks! D' ye no' mind hoo Mrs. Cochrane's man tell 't us his neb wis aye bew wi' him pittin' potty on 't when he wis a wean?... Tak' it aff, Macgreegor, or I'll sort ye!"

Macgregor, but little abashed, returned to; the window, removed the offending plaster, rolled it into a ball, and proceeded to squeeze it through his fingers with undisguised relish.

"John," said Lizzie, "dae whit I tell 't ye."

"I canna," returned John, miserably. "It micht wauken wee Jeannie," he added, a little hopefully.

"I didna exac'ly say ye wis to—to wheep the laddie," said his wife, "but ye maun gi'e him a lesson he'll no' furget. I'm no' gaun to ha'e him boastin' an' ill-usin' ither weans. D' ye see?"

"But whit am I to dae, Lizzie?"

"I'll tell ye, John. Ye'll gang ower to the dresser an' open the wee drawer, an' ye'll tak' oot the taiblet ye brocht hame fur Macgreegor the morn Are ye listenin'?"

"Ay, wumman."

"An' ye'll tell Macgreegor ye bocht the taiblet fur his Setterday treat, thinkin' he deservit it, but ye've fun' oot he disna deserve it, an' ye canna gi'e him ony."

"Aw, Lizzie!"

"An' ye'll tie up the paircel, an' gar him tak' it roon the corner to Wullie Thomson, an' gi'e it to Wullie Thomson, an' gi'e him back his potty furbye."

"Aw, Lizzie!"

"An' it 'll be a lesson to Macgreegor no' to strike laddies waker nor hissel'. Ye wud be gey sair pit aboot, John, if a muckle laddie wis strikin' Macgreegor."

"Deed, wud I! But—but Macgreegor's that fond o' taiblet"

"Man, man, can ye no' think o' whit's guid fur Macgreegor? That's the wey ye spile him, John. Ye wud gi'e him the cock aff the steeple if he cried fur 't!"

"Maybe ye're richt, Lizzie. But it's a hard thing ye're askin'. Wud it no' dae to gi'e him hauf the taiblet to tak' to Wullie Thomson?"

"Na, na," said Lizzie, firmly. "Here, Macgreegor!" she called to her son. "Yer paw wants to speak to ye.... Noo, John!"

With a huge sigh, John rose, went to the wee drawer in the dresser, and returned with the poke of "taiblet."

"Paw," said Macgregor, absently, "I like taiblet better nor potty."

The father glanced appealingly at the mother, but she was adamant. She had resumed her needle, but was keeping an eye on the twain.

"Macgreegor," said John, with a painful effort, "whit wey did ye strike puir Wullie Thomson?"

"I wantit a wee daud o' potty."

"Ay," murmured John, and paused for a moment. "Are ye sorry ye hut him?"

"Naw. I got the potty, paw."

"But ye sud be sorry, Macgreegor."

"Whit wey, paw?"

"Wis he greetin'?"

"Ay; wis he!"

John looked across at Lizzie for aid, but she was sewing diligently.

"Weel," he said, haltingly, "yer maw an' me's no' vera pleased wi' whit ye done to Wullie Thomson. It wisna fair to strike the likes o' him."

Macgregor's visage began to assume an anxious expression.

"Yer maw," continued John—"yer maw says ye canna"

"John!" murmured Lizzie, warningly.

"Yer maw and me thinks ye canna get ony taiblet the morn."

Macgregor's under-lip shot out quivering.

"An'—ye've got to gi'e the taiblet to Wullie Thomson, an' gi'e him back his potty, furbye, an'—an'—oh, Lizzie, I canna say ony mair!"

It took a few seconds for the dire truth to dawn upon Macgregor, but when it did a low wail issued from him, and the tears began to flow.

John was about to lift him onto his knee, but Lizzie interposed.

"Pit on yer bunnet, Macgreegor," she said, quietly, "an' tak' the taiblet an' potty roon to Wullie Thomson. It's no' dark yet," she added, glancing out of the window.

"I'm no' wantin' to gi'e the taiblet to Wullie Thomson," sobbed the luckless youngster.

"Ye've jist to dae whit ye're tell 't" returned his mother, calmly, but not unkindly. "Ye're no' to be a tawpy noo," she went on, endeavoring to dry his eyes. "Ye're to be a man. Whit wud Wullie Thomson think if he seen ye greetin'? Eh, Macgreegor?"

Lizzie had struck the right note. The sobs ceased, though the breath still came gustily. He mopped the tears with his cap, and replaced it on his head.

"Am I to gi'e him a' the taiblet an' the potty furbye?" he inquired, plaintively.

"Ay. An' ye're to say ye're sorry fur hurtin' him. He's no' a fine, strong laddie like yersel', Macgreegor—mind that! Yer paw an' me wudna like if ye wis wake i' the legs like puir Wullie. Noo, jist gang roon an' gi'e him the taiblet an' his potty, an' see if ye canna mak' freen's wi' him again."

"I'm no' wantin' to be freen's," said Macgregor, rebelliously. "I'm no' wantin' to gang."

"Are ye feart fur Wullie Thomson?" asked Lizzie. Another clever stroke!

"I'm no feart! I'll gang!"

"Fine, man!" cried John, who had been listening in gloomy silence. "I kent ye wisna feart."

Macgregor began to feel himself rather a hero. In dignified silence he took the poke of "taiblet," which his mother had tied securely with a piece of tape from her work-bag, and departed on his errand.

John looked anxiously to Lizzie.

She sat down to her seam again, but her fingers were less deft than usual. They both eyed the clock frequently.

"He sudna be mair nor five meenits," remarked John. "I doot we wis ower hard on the wean, wumman."

Lizzie made no response, and ten minutes dragged slowly past.

"Did ye expec' he wud dae 't?" asked John, presently.

"Och, ay!" she answered, with affected carelessness.

"I wisht I had went wi' him," said John.

Lizzie put in half a dozen stitches in silence. Then she said: "Ye micht gang roon an' see whit's keepin' him, John."

"I'll dae that, Lizzie.... Dae ye think I micht buy him a bit taiblet when I'm ootbye?" He asked the question diffidently.

His wife looked up from her seam. "If ye like, John," she said, gently. "I'm thinkin' the laddie's had his lesson noo. He's unco prood fur to be a wean, is he no'?"

"Ay," said John. "There's no' mony like Macgreegor." He nodded to his wife, and went out.

About twenty minutes later father and son re-entered the house together. Both were beaming.

"I cudna get Macgreegor awa' frae Wullie Thomson, Lizzie," said John, smiling.

"Weel, weel," said his wife, looking pleased. "An' did ye gi'e Wullie the taiblet an' the potty, Macgreegor?"

"Ay, maw."

Whereupon his mother caught and cuddled him. "Gi'e him a bit taiblet, John," she said.

John did so right gladly and generously, and Macgregor crumped away to his heart's content.

"An' whit kep' ye waitin' at Wullie's a' this time?" inquired Lizzie, pleasantly.

"He gi'ed me a big daud o' potty, maw," said the boy, producing a lump the size of an orange.

"Oh!" exclaimed Lizzie, trying not to look annoyed.

"An' him an' me ett the taiblet," added Macgregor.