CHAPTER XII.
Old Mr. Purdie placed his closed hands behind his back, and, with a twinkle in his eye, delivered himself of the ancient rhyme—
"Neevy, neevy, nick nack,
Which haun' will you tak'?
Tak' the richt, or tak' the wrang,
An' I'll beguile ye if I can!"
"I'll tak' the richt, granpaw," said Macgregor.
Mr. Purdie extended the member mentioned, disclosing a slab of toffee done up in transparent paper. "Ye're a rale smairt laddie," he observed, with a chuckle. "Ye aye guess whaur the gundy is."
"Ay, I'm gey fly," returned Macgregor, modestly, beginning an onslaught on the sweet.
Mr. Purdie chuckled again, and slipped the packet of toffee, which had been concealed in his left hand, into his pocket.
"I'm aye richt, am I no'?" inquired his grandson.
"Ay, are ye, Macgreegor! It bates me to think hoo ye ken."
"Aw, I jist ken.... It's awfu' guid!"
"It it?"
"Ay. I'll gi'e ye a taste."
"Na, na," said Mr. Purdie, looking pleased. "I'll jist ha'e a bit smoke to masel'. Ye' re no' to tell yer maw I wis gi'en ye gundy, though; an' yer no' to let it spile yer tea."
"I'll never let bug, granpaw," said Macgregor, as if to set his relative's guilty conscience at rest.
The twain had come down to the shore at low water, and Mr. Purdie was resting on a rock, while Macgregor hunted among the stones and sea-weed for small crabs, several of which he had secured already and confined in an old battered meat tin.
"Noo, dinna get yer feet wat, laddie," said Mr. Purdie when he had got his pipe, a highly-seasoned clay, well alight.
"Nae fears, granpaw," returned the boy, reassuringly. As a matter of fact, his feet at the very moment were squelching in his boots. "Here's anither!" he exclaimed, holding up a tiny crab. "It's awfu' kitly," he added, as he allowed it to run on the palm of his hand. "It's ower wee fur to nip. Wud ye like to fin' it in yer haun', granpaw?"
"Deed, ay," said Mr. Purdie, with the desire to please his grandson. "Ay, it's gey an' kitly. An' whit are ye gaun to dae wi' a' thae partins?" he inquired, indicating the meat tin.
"I'm gaun to tak' them hame."
"No' to Glesca?"
"Ay, to Glesca!"
"Aw, but they'll jist dee, Macgreegor."
"Whit wey?"
"Partins winna leeve in Glesca."
"Whit wey wull they no'?"
"They need saut watter."
"I'll tak' saut watter hame, tae. I'll tak' it in a botle, granpaw."
Mr. Purdie shook his head, and the boy looked disappointed.
"Whit wud ye dae wi' partins in Glesca?" asked the former.
"Naethin'."
"An' whit wud ye tak' them hame fur?"
"It wisna fur masel'. I'm no' heedin' aboot partins. I wud be feart fur them growin' big an' creepin' intil ma bed. It wis wee Joseph wantit partins."
"Wha's wee Joseph?"
"He's a wee laddie. He's faur wee-er nor me, an' he's lyin' badly, an' his paw's deid, an' his maw washes."
"Ay, ay. An' sae wee Joseph wantit ye to bring him partins?"
"He wantit a monkey first; he thocht there wis monkeys in Rothesay, sclimmin' up the rocks an' runnin' aboot the pier an' the shore. Wee Joseph's never seen the sea."
"That's peetifu'. An' ye tell 't him there wis nae monkeys?"
"Ay; an' he begood fur to greet. An' I tell 't him aboot the partins, an' he said he wud like a wheen partins, an'—an' I thocht the partins wud leeve in Glesca, an'—an'—I'll jist tim them oot an' bash them wi' a stane."
"Na, na. Ye mauna dae that, Macgreegor," exclaimed Mr. Purdie, hastily. "The puir beasties canna help no' bein' able to leeve in Glesca."
"I'll bash them," cried Macgregor, violently.
"Haud on, laddie, haud on. If ye wis a wee partin, hoo wud ye like if a big laddie cam' an' bashed ye wi' a stane?"
"If I wis a partin, I wud leeve in Glesca." And the youngster's eyes moved in search of a suitable stone.
"Macgreegor," implored the old man, laying his pipe on the rock and rising, "dae ye think wee Joseph wud like ye to bash the partins?"
"Ay, wud he."
"I'm shair he wudna. The puir wee partins never done onybody hairm."
Macgregor picked up a small bowlder, remarking, "Partins nips folks' taes when they're dookin'."
"Ay; but no' wee partins like thur."
"Thae wee yins 'll shin be big," said Macgregor, coldly. "I'll bash this yin first," he added, selecting a poor little specimen from the tin and laying it on the rock.
Grandfather Purdie seized the uplifted arm. "Macgreegor," he said, gently, "ye're no' to dae it."
"Whit wey?"
"Because," said the old man, searching for an argument that might appeal to the young savage—"because it's sic a wee bit thing."
"It's gey wee," admitted Macgregor, peering into the tin while the victim slid off the rock and escaped; "ay, it's gey wee. Here's a bigger yin. I'll bash it."
"Macgreegor," said Mr. Purdie, solemnly, "ye mauna be crool. Ye wudna like if a muckle giant got a grup o' yersel', an' wis gaun to bash ye wi' his club."
"It's a' lees aboot giants. There's na giants."
"Aweel, ye're no' to be crool, onywey," said Mr. Purdie, at a loss. "Let the wee partins rin awa', an' dinna vex yer granpaw. The wee beasties is that happy, ye ken, an' it wud be a sin to bash them. They're jist like weans doon at the coast fur the fair, rinnin' aboot an' enjoyin' theirsel's, an' they'll be awfu' obleeged to ye fur no' bashin' them."
The old man had evidently struck the right chord at last, for Macgregor dropped the stone and said, "Weel, I'll no' bash them, granpaw."
"That's a fine laddie."
"An' I'll let them awa'," he added, turning the tin upside down.
Mr. Purdie patted the boy's cheek. "I kent ye wudna be crool," he said, tenderly. "Here anither bit gundy fur yer gab."
"Thenk you, granpaw."
"An' ye'll never think o' bashin' partins again, Macgreegor?"
"Naw. But—but wee Joseph 'll be unco sorry."
"Aha! But we'll ha'e to see aboot somethin' fur wee Joseph. Whit d' ye think he wud like?"
"He wantit somethin' that wis leevin'."
"Leevin'? Dod, that's no' sae easy," said Mr. Purdie, resuming his seat and pipe and gazing thoughtfully across the bay. "I ken a man here that keeps birds," he remarked at last. "Wud wee Joseph like a bird, think ye?"
"Naw," Macgregor firmly and unhesitatingly replied.
"A bird wud be a nice pet fur a laddie that's lyin' badly. It wud cheep an' sing til him, ye ken."
"Birds is ower easy kill't. Ye canna play wi' birds in yer bed."
"Deed, that's true.... Whit think ye o' a wee cat? Mrs. M'Conkie the grocer's got kittens the noo."
"Joseph had a wee cat, an' it scartit his neb, an' his maw pit it oot the hoose. He had white mice anither time, an' they had young yins, but his maw wudna let him keep them in the bed."
"Weel," said Mr. Purdie, "I'm shair I dinna ken whit to say, Macgreegor."
"The partins wis best, if they wud ha'e leeved. Wee Joseph wis fur keepin' them in a boax, an' him an' me wis gaun to mak' them rin races on the blanket. Maybe they wud catch their feet in the oose, though."
"I doot they wud, puir beasties.... But I'm feart we canna get Joseph onythin' that's leevin'."
Macgregor looked depressed, whereat his grandfather sighed helplessly and let his pipe go out.
"Ye see, laddie, there's no' mony things ye can gi'e til a wean that's lyin' badly," said the old man. "Wull Joseph be better shin?"
"Naw. It's his back that hurts him. He's awfu' bad whiles. I wudna like to be him."
"That's maist peetifu'. I'll tell ye whit we'll dae, Macgreegor."
"Whit, granpaw?"
"We'll ha'e a keek at the shopes afore we gang hame to wur tea, an' ye'll maybe see somethin' that wud please him."
"Wull we gang noo?" exclaimed the youngster, brightening.
Mr. Purdie consulted a fat silver watch.
"Aye, we'll gang noo, an' see whit we can see. Gi'e's yer haun, Macgreegor.... Hech, sirs! but ye're no' to gar me rin. I'm no' as soople as yersel', ma mannie. Mind yer feet, or we'll baith be tum'lin on the slippy places."
Without mishap, however, they came to the road, and soon reached the town, Mr. Purdie "pechin" and Macgregor beaming with anticipation.
At a window which seemed to be stocked with all the toys and trifles in creation they paused and gazed.
"Ha'e," said Mr. Purdie, producing his purse, "there's a thrupny-bit. Jist tak' yer pick, Macgreegor."
"Thenk ye, granpaw. Oh, whit 'll I buy?"
"Wud ye no' like to buy thon braw joog wi' the pictur' on it?"
"Naw."
"I'm thinkin' it wud be a nice kin' o' thing fur Joseph. Ye see it's got 'A Present frae Rothesay' on it; an' he wud like gettin' his tea oot o' it. Eh?"
"Naw."
"Aweel, ye maun please yersel'. There's a pent-boax, noo. Wud Joseph like to pent, think ye?"
"Na. I like pentin'—I'm gaun to be a penter when I'm a man. But I'm gaun to ha'e pots o' pent an' big dauds o' potty."
"Weel, maybe wee Joseph"
"Naw."
"There's a pretty pictur'-book," said Mr. Purdie. "Dae ye think"
"Naw."
The old man gave up.
"I'll buy thon trumpet," cried the boy at last.
"I doot, when wee Joseph's lyin' badly, he'll no' be vera fit to blaw a trumpet."
"I cud blaw it fur him, granpaw. I can blaw rale hard."
"Ay, but I'm feart wee Joseph michtna like that."
"Whit wey?"
Mr. Purdie was about to attempt explaining, when suddenly Macgregor gave vent to a cry of delight. "See—oh, see! there's a monkey hingin' in the corner!"
"Haste ye an' buy it," said his grandfather, laughing.
Macgregor required no second bidding, and a couple of minutes later he was exhibiting his purchase. It was an earthenware monkey that bounded merrily at the end of a piece of elastic. "It's gey near leevin', is 't no'?" he demanded. "See it loupin'!" And he continued to play with it until they were nearly home.
"Wee Joseph 'll be unco gled to see it. It 'll gar him lauch, puir laddie," said Mr. Purdie.
"Ay," assented Macgregor, without much animation. For the moment he had somehow forgotten all about wee Joseph. He wound the elastic carefully about the monkey's neck, and walked on in silence.
"Ye'll like gi'ein' it to the puir laddie," said Mr. Purdie, glancing down.
"Ay," answered Macgregor in a husky whisper.