Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 8

to the door, Macgreegor, an' see wha' it is," said Mrs. Robinson, who was engaged in feeding wee Jeannie with tit-bits from the Saturday dinner-table.

Stuffing half a potato into his mouth, the boy slipped from his chair and obeyed orders.

"It's maybe Mrs. M'Ostrich," remarked Lizzie to her husband.

"Whit wud she be wantin'?" inquired John, who was leaning back in his chair, looking perfectly satisfied with life, and idly whittling a match into a toothpick.

"I wis expec'in' her to bring back the things she got the len' o' yesterday "

"Whit things?"

"Did I no' tell ye? Aweel, Mrs. M'Ostrich wis ha'ein' comp'ny last nicht, an' she speirt if I wud len' her the twa bew vazes, an' the mauve tidy wi' the yella paurrit on it, an' the cheeny muik-joog, an' a wheen ither things."

"Dod, she's no' blate!"

"Aw, puir wumman, she hasna muckle in her hoose, an' she's that fond o' comp'ny."

"Deed she micht ha'e askit us yins til her pairty!" said John, laughing good-naturedly.

"Ye ken fine ye wudna gang til her pairty if she askit ye a thoosan' times. But whit's keepin' Macgreegor... Macgreegor, whit's keepin' ye?"

"I'm comin', maw," replied a choked voice.

"Weel, haste ye!... It's no' been Mrs. M'Ostrich, efter a'. Deed, I hope she hasna chippit the bew vazes.... Here, Macgreegor, wha wis at the door?"

"It wis postie, maw."

"Whit kep' ye?"

"He's gied me a cheuch jean, an' I've ett it, an' here's a letter fur paw."

"Tits, laddie! Ye're ower chief wi' the post-man. Whit's the big letter aboot, John?"

"Whit dae ye think, Lizzie?" asked her husband, grinning.

"I ken whit it is," put in Macgregor, "fur I keekit in. It's ma likeness!"

"John! is 't the photygraphs?"

"Ay, is it!"

"Aw, John' quick!—let me see! My! I thocht they wis never comin'. Mind ye dinna file them, John, an' dinna let Macgreegor tich them till he's washed his hauns.... Oh, wee Jeannie, ye're gaun tae see yer boney likeness!—eh, ma doo?... Macgreegor, mak' a clean plate, and then wash yer hauns.... John, John, yer fingers is a' thoombs! Can ye no' open it?"

"Ye're in an awfu' hurry, Lizzie," said John, teasingly, pretending to fumble with the packet. "Maybe ye'll shin be wishin' I hadna opened it."

"Ach, awa' wi' ye! I ken the pictur's is first-class. Come on, John. Nane o' yer palavers!"

So John opened the packet, which contained six very highly polished cabinets, and, after a moment's inspection, burst into a great guffaw.

"Man, ye're jist a big wean!" said his wife, a little impatiently. "Let me see yin o' them."

"There ye are, wumman. Dod, it's rale comic!"

"I want yin, paw," said Macgregor.

"An' ye'll get yin, ma mannie. Ha'e! Whit dae ye think o' that?"

Macgregor studied the photograph for half a minute, and then looked up at his father with an expression of disappointment.

"Whit wey is ma toorie no' rid, paw?" he demanded.

John stopped smiling, and looked uncomfortable.

"Ye said it wud be rid," said the boy.

"Ay, I mind I said I wud tell the man to pent it rid, but—but I clean furgot. It's a braw likeness, though—is 't no', Macgreegor?"

"I wantit ma toorie to be rid, an' it's black," said Macgregor, coldly.

"I'm rale vexed I furgot to tell the man... Lizzie, did ye hear whit Macgreegor wis saying?"

"Eh?" said Lizzie, who had been delightedly occupied in examining the details of the family group and pointing them out to wee Jeannie.

"Macgreegor's no' pleased at his bunnet no' ha'ein' a rid toorie," said John. "Ye see, I furgot to tell the man to pent it rid."

"It's jist as weel, John, fur it wud be a daft-like thing to ha'e a rid toorie in a photygraph."

"But ma bunnet's toorie's rid, maw," said her son.

"Ay, dearie. But rid an' bew an' yella an' ither colors canna be tooken in a likeness."

"Whit wey can they no'?"

"I canna tell ye that. An' it wudna be vera nice to pit pent on a photygraph."

"Whit wey, maw?"

"Aw, it jist wudna be nice.... Dis wee Jeannie ken her paw? Dis she?" Lizzie cried, returning to the photograph and her daughter. "Ay, fine she kens her paw!"

"It's mair nor her paw dis," observed John, a trifle dejectedly. "I'm lukin' as if I wis a toff gaun to be chokit, wi' that masher collar,"

"Ye're lukin' fine, John," said his wife. "An' I'm rale gled I got ye to pit on the collar. Ye're a wee bit solemn; but I dinna care to see a man ower jocose-like in a photygraph; it gars me think o' the likeness in the papers o' folk that ha'e been cured o' indisgeestion.... Ah! ye wee cutty!"—this to wee Jeannie—"ye're no' to pit the boney pictur' in the gravy!"

"I dinna think it's a boney pictur'," observed Macgregor, who was nursing his chagrin. "It's a nesty auld pictur'!"

"Haud yer tongue, Macgreegor," said his mother..

"It's an ugly auld pictur'! I dinna like it a wee tate! I wudna"

"Sh-h-h! Ye're no' to talk that silly wey. Yer granpaw Purdie 'll be weel pleased wi' it—wull he no', John?"

"I hope he wull, Lizzie. It's no' bad, takin' it a' thegither, but"

"I tell 't Granpaw Purdie it wud ha'e a rid toorie, an'—an' it hasna," said Macgregor.

"Och, whit's aboot a rid toorie?" said his mother, laughing.

"But I'm rale vexed aboot it," said his father, gravely. "I promised Macgreegor the toorie wud be pentit rid, an'"

"Weel, Macgreegor canna ha'e it rid noo, an' that's jist a' aboot it."

"An' I tell 't Wullie Thomson it wud be rid, and Wullie Thomson tell 't a' the ither laddies," said the youngster, with a quaver in his voice.

"Ye sudna ha'e tell 't onybody it wud be rid till ye wis shair o' 't," remarked Lizzie.

"But I wis as shair 's onythin'. Paw said it wud be rid!"

The unintentional reproach rendered John dumb with misery.

"Ye best gang oot an' play fur a wee," said Lizzie.

"I'm no' wantin' to gang oot," replied her son, sulkily.

"Ye'll jist dae whit I bid ye, Macgreegor. Wee Jeannie's gaun to ha'e a nap, for she wis restless last nicht, an' she wudna sleep i' the forenune. Sae aff ye gang, ma mannie, an' ye'll get carvies to yer tea. But dinna gang faur, mind."

"Maybe Macgreegor's no' wantin' to gang ootbye," said John, with an effort.

"That wud be somethin' new. Awa' wi' ye, Macgreegor, an' play wi' Wullie Thomson.

Very unwillingly Macgregor departed.

"John, ye sudna interfere when I'm tellin' Macgreegor to dae this or that," said Lizzie, softly, as she patted her daughter, who was nearly asleep.

"Weel, I daursay I'm wrang, dearie. But I'm rale vexed fur Macgreegor. Did ye no' see hoo sweirt he wis to gang ootbye?"

"He's whiles gey dour, ye ken."

"Ay, but it wisna a' dourness. The puir laddie wis feart o' bein' whit ye wud ca' affrontit."

"Affrontit?"

"Ay, jist that. Fur whit wis he to say if Wullie Thomson an' the ither laddies askit him aboot his likeness? Ye see, Lizzie, I've nae doot he's been boastin' a wee aboot gettin' a pictur' o' hissel' wi' a rid toorie—an' noo"

"Hoots, John! It's no sic a serious maitter as a' that."

"It's gey serious to the wean. Macgreegor's unco prood, an' it 'll be a sair job fur him to tell the laddies aboot his pictur' no' ha'ein' a rid toorie, efter a'."

"He sudna ha'e boastit."'

"Aw, Lizzie!"

"He needna tell the laddies."

"But that's jist whit he'll dae, fur they'll no' furget to ask him, an' he'll no' tell a lee."

"I ken that, John."

"Weel, then, the laddies 'll lauch at him an' mak' a mock o' him fur guid kens hoo lang aboot his rid toorie."

"I'll sort them if they mak' a mock o' ma laddie," exclaimed Lizzie, indignantly.

"Na, na. Ye canna dae that, wumman. The wean's jist got to suffer, an' it's a' ma fau't—a' ma fau't."

Lizzie rose without replying, and, having deposited wee Jeannie in bed, set about clearing the dinner-table. When she had finished washing-up she turned to John, who was smoking "up the lum" in a melancholy fashion.

"I wis wonderin' if ye cudna get a rid toorie pentit yet," she said.

"Dae ye mean that, Lizzie?" he exclaimed, starting up.

"Ay. It wud please the wean, an' yersel' furbye. An' cud ye no' jist dae 't yersel'?"

"But I've nae pent. An' it wud be gey difficult to pent on that blossy stuff unless ye kent the wey," said John, thoughtfully regarding the photograph.

"It jist wants a week tick o' rid, dis it no'?"

"Ay, jist a wee tick, an'—dod,—wumman, I ken whit 'll dae!" cried John, in sudden ecstasy.

"Whisht, whisht! Mind wee Jeannie. Weel, whit is it?"

"Whit d'ye think?"

"I cudna guess."

"Jist a wee tick o' a penny stamp," replied the husband, in a triumphant whisper.

"Noo, if that's no' clever!" murmured Lizzie, admiringly. "An' I've a stamp in ma purse, fur I was gaun to write to Mrs. Purdie to tell her we cudna gang to wur tea on Wensday. My! John, ye're a faur-seein' man, and Macgreegor 'll be that pleased."

A minute later the twain were seated at the table with a photograph between them.

"I'm thinkin' ye're a braw wumman, Lizzie," said John.

"Ye're jist a blether," said Lizzie, without looking the least offended.

Presently she handed over her scissors, and John cut "a wee tick" from the stamp which she had already given him.

"Canny, noo, John," she muttered. "It wud be a peety to spile the photygraph."

"I'll manage it," he returned.... Dod, but I've swallowed it!"

"Tak' anither wee tick, John."

Another "wee tick" was taken from the stamp and successfully affixed to the tiny "toorie" of Macgregor's bonnet as it appeared in the photograph. Then John sat up, regarding his handiwork with no small satisfaction.

"Eh, Lizzie?"

"Fine, John!"

"The wean 'ill be pleased?"

"Deed, ay."

The twain beamed upon each other.

When Macgregor came in he found them still beaming, and he beamed also.

"Weel, ma mannie," said John, gayly, "wis ye playin' wi' Wullie Thomson?"

"Ay, paw. I wis playin' wi' Wullie an' the ither laddies at tig, an' I never wis het!"

"Ye didna say onythin' aboot rid toories, did ye?" inquired his father, with a surreptitious wink at Lizzie, who had the photograph under her apron.

"Ay. I tell 't them I wisna gaun to ha'e a rid toorie in ma likeness, because a black yin wis finer."

"An' whit did they say to that?" asked Lizzie.

"They a' said it wis finer excep' Tam Jamieson, an' I hut him on the neb, an' then he said black wis finer nor rid."

"But, Macgreegor," said John, motioning to Lizzie to keep silence, "wud ye no' like a pictur' wi' a rid toorie on yer bunnet?"

"Nae fears!" returned Macgregor, with sublime contempt. "I'm no' fur rid toories ony mair, paw."

John and Lizzie looked helplessly at each other.