CHAPTER XV.
"An' whit dae ye say to yer granpaw fur the barra?" inquired Lizzie of her son, who was gazing with sparkling eyes at the small wheel-barrow which Mr. Purdie had just purchased for him.
Macgregor said nothing, but he suddenly flung himself upon the old gentleman and hugged him warmly.
"Hech, laddie!" cried Mr. Purdie, panting and chuckling, "ye'll squeeze a' the breith oot o' me. But I'm rale gled ye like yer barra. Yer granny wis fur gettin' me to buy ye a pictur'-book, but"
"I like the barra faur better nor a pictur'-book," said Macgregor. "Ye canna gi'e folk hurls in a pictur'-book."
"Deed, that's vera true. Maybe ye wud liketo gang ootbye an' gi'e some o' yer wee freen's a bit ride."
"Ay, wud I!" said Macgregor, eagerly.
"Aff ye gang, then," said John, who was looking nearly as pleased as the youngster.
"Och, John," Lizzie put in, "Macgreegor maun bide a wee. It's no' every Setterday efternune his granpaw comes up frae Rothesay."
"Hoots, toots!" exclaimed Mr. Purdie, patting his grandson's head. "The laddie's no' to bide in the hoose fur me. Him an' me 'll hae a crack anither time. Eh, Macgreegor?"
"I—I'll bide if ye like, granpaw," Macgregor murmured, casting a longing glance at his new treasure.
"Na, na," the old man returned, with a gratified smile at John and Lizzie. "I'm na gaun awa' fur an 'oor yet, sae ye've time to try the barra an' come back an' tell me if it rins weel."
"Ay, I'll dae that," said Macgregor; and obviously relieved, he departed without delay.
At the close-mouth he encountered a little girl with whom, for some time, he had been familiar in rather a patronizing fashion. On one occasion he had chased away a small dog which in a playful mood had caused her much alarm, and since then she had regarded him in the light of a hero, and had somewhat embarrassed him with her attentions, for Macgregor was sorely afraid of the chaff of his boy friends, who, with the exception of his chum, Willie Thomson, were not slow to make jeering observations when they caught him in the company of his admirer, Therefore, as a rule, he passed her without speaking, or at most with a hurried and awkward reply to her shy but eager remark, made in the fond hope of interesting him.
But with his new wheelbarrow he was in a mightily pleasant humor, and grinned so kindly that the little girl was quite flurried with pride and delight.
"Ha'e!" she said, modestly, presenting a tiny packet.
"Whit's that?" asked Macgregor, accepting and opening it. "Chokelet! Whaur did ye git it?"
"I got it fur gaun a message."
"It's awfu' guid! Did ye get twa bits, Katie?"
"Na. Jist the yin. But—but I'm no' heedin' aboot chokelet."
Macgregor stopped eating. "Pit that in yer gab," he said, handing back half the dainty. "Whit wey did ye gi'e it a' to me?"
"Jist," said Katie.
"See ma new barra!" said Macgregor, at the end of a short silence.
"My!" she exclaimed, admiringly.
"It's an awfu' fine barra!"
"Ay!"
"I got it frae Granpaw Purdie."
"Did ye?"
"Ay, did I! An' I'm gaun to gi'e folks hurls in it."
"My!'
Macgregor reflected for a moment; then remarked, "If ye wis a laddie I wud gi'e ye a hurl!"
Katie's bright eyes clouded and her fair head drooped. From a pinnacle of pride she fell into the depths of humiliation. She wanted to say, "I'm no heedin' aboot hurls!" but her throat tightened and her lips trembled, and she remained speechless.
"Dae ye no' wish ye wis a laddie?" inquired Macgregor, bending over his grand possession and making the wheel revolve.
Katie made no response, and the boy rose and looked up and down the street preparatory to making the trial trip. Behind him, Katie raised the hem of her pinafore to her eyes.
Macgregor stepped out of the close and stood on the pavement, gripping the handles. There were few people walking in the street, and not one of his playmates was in sight.
Without turning his head, he said, abruptly, "Come oot, Katie, an' I'll gi'e ye a hurl."
Katie took a step forward and halted.
Macgregor repeated the invitation, with a glance in her direction.
Katie cast down her eyelashes and stood still.
"Are ye no' wantin' a hurl?" he inquired, a trifle impatiently.
"Ay," said Katie, hastily, but without moving.
"Whit wey are ye greetin'?"
"I'm no' greetin'!"
"Ye are so! Ye're greetin' because ye're a lassie. Lassies is aye greetin'."
"They are no' aye greetin'!" she exclaimed, in a flash of indignation. But she was a gentle little soul, and she could not be cross with her hero. "I'll no' greet again," she said, humbly. "An' I wud like a hurl in yer nice barra, if ye please." She was too young to know, and he was too young to see the beauty of her eyes at that moment, but they looked at each other, and their friendship became less one-sided than it had been so far.
"Sit doon in the barra, Katie," said Macgregor, graciously.
"Ye'll no' coup me?" said she, with an inquiring yet confiding glance.
"Nae fears! I'll no' coup ye! Haud yer feet up."
She raised her feet obediently, and pulled her short skirts over the darns on her knees.
"I'll hurl ye to the corner an' back again," said Macgregor.
"Ay," assented Katie, who was holding on to the sides of the vehicle and looking just the least thing afraid.
They set off at a good pace, and when the corner was reached Katie was smiling fearlessly and enjoying the envious stares of several little girls whom she chanced to know. The journey back was all too brief in its duration, and she arose from the barrow with undisguised reluctance. What a splendid thing it was to be "hurled" by her hero!
"Ye're an awfu' strong laddie," she observed, admiringly.
"Ay, I'm gey strong," he returned, trying not to pant.
"It wis awfu' nice!" she murmured, with a little sigh.
Macgregor spat on his hands. "Wud ye like anither hurl?" he asked.
"Ay, wud I. Am I no' ower heavy?"
"Ye're no' heavy ava'. Get into the barra, an' I'll hurl ye to the ither corner. It's faurer."
Away they went again on a journey even more delightful than the first. Children scattered before them, and grown-up people hurriedly skipped against the wall or into the gutter, their varied remarks being unheard or unheeded.
"Ye're awfu' kind!" said Katie, when they stood at the close-mouth once more.
"Och, it's naethin' ava'," returned Macgregor, hot and happy.
"Ah, but ye are awfu' kind. Ither laddies is no' as kind."
"Ay, but ye' re rale kind yersel'. An' ye're no' as daft as ither lassies."
It was a rare compliment, and Katie appreciated it too deeply for words. At the end of half a minute she said, softly, "I like ye unco weel.... Dae ye like me?"
"Ay," admitted Macgregor.
"Dae ye like me unco weel?"
"Ay. Wull I gi'e ye anither hurl?"
Katie nodded and beamed upon him. She took her place in the barrow, and Macgregor was just about to start off when a heavy paw was laid upon his shoulder, and a disagreeable voice said, "Len's yer barra, an' I'll gi'e the lassie a hurl."
The voice was that of a great, lumpy boy, the terror of the youngsters in the vicinity of Macgregor's abode, a coarse creature, who never herded with fellows of his own size, but prowled about teasing and bullying the little ones, and even annexing their playthings when it pleased him to do so.
Little Katie looked up in terror. "I'm no' wantin' him to hurl me," she cried to Macgregor, who was white and angry.
"She's no' wantin' ye to hurl her," he said to the bully, who had already grabbed one of the handles.
"I'll gi'e her a faur quicker hurl nor you," said the bully, with an ugly laugh. "Louse yer haun'!"
"I'll no'!"
"I'll shin gar ye louse it."
"I'm no' wantin' to len' ye ma barra," said Macgregor.
Katie rose to her feet. "Dinna len' him it," she said, making a face at the tormentor.
"Gi'e's nane o' yer lip," said the latter. "Get in yersel', Macgreeegor," he added, with an attempt at pleasantness, "an' I'll gi'e ye a graun' hurl."
"I'm no wantin' a hurl frae you," said Macgregor, retreating into the close.
The bully vented some language which need not be repeated, and tried to jerk the barrow from its owner's grasp. But Macgregor held on gamely, and a desperate struggle occupied about two minutes, during which Katie looked at her hero in fear and trembling, and longed for the appearance of Willie Thomson or another of his friends.
Suddenly there was a nasty cracking sound, and Macgregor was left with one leg of his barrow in his hands, while the bully laughed loudly as he found himself in possession of the remainder.
"Ye've broke ma barra," screamed the youngster, tears of rage and grief starting to his eyes, and he made an onslaught with the sundered leg upon the villain, who at first grinned scornfully, but soon found it necessary to defend himself. Macgregor caught him a nice thwack over the knuckles, causing him to drop the barrow; but a moment later the valiant one was in the other's clutches and being cruelly cuffed.
Katie could bear no more. With a cry of childish wrath, she fell upon the bully from behind, and put in some really effective work with her hands and feet. Still, the battle might have been to the strong had not Willie Thomson appeared upon the scene. Willie was not muscular, but he had an idea. Signing to Katie to keep clear, he suddenly grabbed the bully's right leg, and brought him to the ground with Macgregor on top. The latter shook himself free, and stood up a sorry picture.
The bully rose with a roar, and made for Willie Thomson, who dashed off, and did not reach his own door a second too soon. There he had the good fortune to meet his elder brother, who administered to the bully a trouncing which would have been longer but for the arrival of a policeman, but which could not have been stronger while it lasted.
And, left to themselves, Katie and Macgregor dissolved in tears. She was the first to see clearly, and lo! Macgregor, with his broken barrow, his bruised, tear-stained countenance, and his gusty sobs of pain and wrath—Macgregor was still her hero.
"Dinna greet.... Never heed," she said, over and over again, in her anxiety to comfort him.
"Ma barra's broke," he groaned.
"Ay, but it's easy mendit. Will ye no' gang hame to yer maw, noo?"
He shook his head and grieved afresh, though he hated to weep in anybody's, especially in a girl's, presence.
Katie choked, and recovered herself. "Come," she said, gently. "I'll help ye up the stair wi' yer barra, an' I'll tell yer maw how thon muckle sumph set on ye, an' hoo ye lickit him."
"But—but I—I didna lick him."
"Aweel, ye vera near did it. Ye wisna feart, onywey. I ken ye wisna feart."
Her words were balm to his sore spirit. But he was feeling weak and shaky, and it was a while ere the tears ceased.
"Wipe yer e'en on ma pinny," said Katie, at last; and somehow he bowed and obeyed her.
Then together they slowly climbed the stairs, bearing the damaged barrow; and, waiting for the door to open, Katie spoke softly and encouragingly, while Macgregor sniffed violently to keep the tears from flowing afresh. She would fain have kissed her hero, but something forbade her.
THE END.