CHAPTER VI.
"Hech! Macgreegor, ye' re gaun ower quick fur me," gasped Mr. Purdie, as the youngster whose hand he held hurried along the Rothesay Esplanade in the early afternoon sunshine.
"I cud gang quicker, granpaw."
"Deed, ay! Ye're fine an' soople! But the boat 'll no' be in fur mair nor hauf an 'oor. Sae we'll jist tak' a sate fur a wee. I'm gettin' auld, Macgreegor, I'm gettin' auld."
"Ay, ye're gey auld," said Macgregor, agreeably.
"But I'm no' that auld," said Mr. Purdie, hastily.
They took a seat facing the bay. Macgregor proceeded to haul in a tin steamboat which he had been dragging after him since they started on their walk, while his grandfather drew from its case a well-seasoned meerschaum, removed the newspaper plug and "dottle," laid the latter on the top of a fresh fill, and, at the expense of seven or eight matches, lit up.
"I see a boat comin'," exclaimed Macgregor ere they had been seated for five minutes.
"Whaur?... Oh, ay. But that's no' the richt boat. Wait till ye see a boat wi' twa yella funnels."
"I like rid funnels better nor yella yins. Whit wey is maw comin' in a boat wi' yella funnels?"
"Yer maw disna like the watter, an' the boats wi' yella funnels dinna come sae faur as the boats wi' rid funnels. That's jist the wey o' it, Macgreegor. Ha'e! Pit thae in your gab."
"I like peppermint lozengers," observed Macgregor, drawing in his breath to get the full effect. "I like leemonade, furbye," he added, presently.
"Are ye dry?"
"Ay."
"Aweel, ye'll maybe get a botle afore we gang to the pier. Whit ha'e ye been daein 'to yer steamboat? It's a' bashed—see!"
"A laddie trampit on it," said Macgregor, holding up his toy. "But the string gaed roon his leg an' coupit him an' he gaed awa' greetin'. Whit wey is there no' a baun'?" he inquired, looking round at the bandstand.
"It's no' the season yet."
"Whit wey is 't no' the season? I like a baun' wi' a big drum. Wull there be a baun' the morn, granpaw?"
"Na, na. No' till the simmer. If ma hoast's no' better I'll maybe bide in Rothesay till the simmer, and then ye'll come back an' stey wi' yer granny an' me, an' gether wulks, an' dook, an' hear the baun'."
"Is yer hoast bad the noo?"
"Ay; it's gey bad at nicht, Macgreegor."
"I yinst had an awfu' sair hoast," said Macgregor, thoughtfully. "I got code-ile. If you wis takin' code-ile ye micht be better afore the simmer, granpaw."
Mr. Purdie smiled. "Wud ye like ma hoast to be better afore the simmer, Macgreegor?"
"Ay. I—I wud like to bide in Rothesay tae. I dinna like wulks, but I like pickin' them oot awfu'. I dinna like dookin', but I like paidlin'."
"I'm thinkin' I'll try the code-ile, Macgreegor."
"It's rale nesty to tak'... But it micht mak' yer hoast better afore the simmer.... Rothesay's a nice place; is 't no'?.... I'm gaun ower to luk at the watter." Macgregor slipped off the seat, and, dragging his steamboat behind him, went over to the railings of the esplanade.
"Ye' re no' to sclim up," cried Mr. Purdie, rising in alarm. "If ye wis fa'in' in there ye wud be droondit."
"There's an awfu' lot o' watter the day," remarked the boy as his grandfather put an arm around him.
"Ay, ye see the tide's in."
"Oh, there a wee fish! D' ye no' see it, granpaw? There anither."
"Ye've better sicht nor me. Noo, noo, ye're no' to lean ower that wey. Ye canna soom, ye ken. An' whit wud yer maw say if ye fell in?"
"She wud gi'e me ile—no' the code-ile, but the ither ile. It's faur waur. I'm gaun fur to sail ma boat noo."
"Ye canna sail it there."
"Ay, can I! See!" Macgregor lowered his toy with the string till it touched the water a yard beneath them. After several partial swampings it was induced to float on a comparatively even keel. "It's soomin'!" he exclaimed in triumph as he jerked it about. And then the string slipped from his fingers. He turned to his grandfather in dire dismay.
"Puir laddie," said Mr. Purdie, looking about for help in the shape of a rowing craft.
"Ma boat, ma boat!" wailed Macgregor, softly.
Old Mr. Purdie went down on his knees, suppressing a groan as he did so, laid his pipe on the ground, and, leaning over the edge, endeavored to secure the string with his walking-stick. For several minutes he wrought, but all in vain, and then Macgregor cried out that his boat was sinking. It was too true! Damaged, doubtless, by many a stormy passage on dry land, and also by being tramped upon, the luckless vessel had gradually filled, and now it was being slowly but surely submerged. Mr. Purdie, in great distress, endeavored to save it with his stick by getting a hold of the metal rigging, but his sight was poor and his hand shaky, and he only succeeded in giving it a prod amidships, which precipitated the disaster. Down, down, in ten feet of clear water it quietly sank, while its owner could do naught but watch and wail, "Ma boat, ma boat!"
Mr. Purdie rose, rubbing his knees and coughing. "I'm rale vexed, Macgreegor," he began.
Crunch!
"Ma pipe, ma pipe!"
Alas! troubles never come singly. Macgregor had lost his beloved boat; Mr. Purdie had trod upon and reduced his dear old pipe to atoms.
"Ma boat, ma boat!"
"Ma pipe, ma pipe!"
The boy gazed despairingly into the depths; his grandfather stared gloomily at the ground.
"Dinna greet, laddie," said Mr. Purdie, at last.
"I'm no' greetin'," returned Macgregor, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve and sniffing violently. Then he perceived the trouble which had befallen his companion.
"Whit wey" he began, and stopped, stricken dumb by the distress in the old face.
"Macgreegor," said Mr. Purdie, taking out a shabby purse, "ye'll maybe get yer boat when the tide gang oot. I'll tell the man ower thonder to keep his e'e on it. An'—an' ye're no' to greet."
"I'm no' greetin', granpaw."
"Aweel, I'm rale vexed fur ye. An' I wudna like ye to be meetin' yer maw wi' sic a long face. Ha'e! There's a saxpence, Macgreegor. Jist rin ower to the shopes an' buy onythin' ye ha'e a fancy fur, an' I'll wait fur ye here. Noo, ye dinna need to gang faur—jist ower the road. An' haste ye back, fur it's near time fur yer maw's boat." Having thus delivered himself, Mr. Purdie heaved a big sigh and looked once more at the wreckage at his feet. The meerschaum had been a presentation, and he had valued it exceedingly. "It wis gettin' auld like hissel', but it wisna near dune yet," had been the substance of a frequent remark of his friends to him during the last five or six years. And now—now it was "dune."
"Are ye no' gaun to the shopes?" he asked his grandson, who was still looking at the sixpence.
"Ay, I'm gaun," said Macgregor. "Thenk ye, granpaw," he added, remembering for once his mother's good instructions. And, his small visage wreathed in smiles of joyful anticipation, he ran off.
Mr. Purdie saw him disappear into a fancy-goods emporium, and then stooped down and gathered the fragments of his pipe into a large red handkerchief, which he carefully deposited in a side-pocket of his coat. After that he marked the place where Macgregor's toy had sunk, and toddled along to tell the nearest boat-hirer to look out for the wreck at low water. He was beginning to get anxious when Macgregor, reappeared, jubilant, dragging behind him a clattering object.
"Did ye buy anither boat?" inquired Mr. Purdie, feeling rather disappointed, for the boat-hirer had assured him that the wreck could easily be recovered.
"It's no' a boat," said Macgregor, smiling. "It's a beast."
"A beast?"
"Ay, granpaw. A aggilator."
"A whit?"
"Aggilator! That's whit the wife in the shope said it wis. Luk at its taes! It can soom, but I'm no' gaun to pit it in the sea."
Mr. Purdie examined the new purchase. "Oh, I see," he said, at last. "It's whit they; ca' a—a—a crocidile, Macgreegor."
"Naw, it's no' a crocidile, granpaw, it's a aggilator."
"Weel, weel, it's a queer-like thing to buy onywey; but if ye're pleased wi' it, that's a' aboot it. Noo, it's time we wis gaun to meet yer maw."
Macgregor gave his disengaged hand to his grandfather, and they proceeded pierward. Silently they went for a minute, at the end of which Macgregor remarked: "I didna spend a' my sixpence on ma aggilator, granpaw."
"Did ye no'? Whit did ye pey fur 't?"
"Fowerpence. I bocht a wheen strippit ba's."
"Did ye?"
"Ay, but I didna spend a' the tippence on them."
"Ye wud keep a penny fur yer pooch, like a wice laddie."
"Naw. I bocht ye a pipe, granpaw," said Macgregor, grinning. He released his hand and dived into his pocket.
"Weel, I never!" said Mr. Purdie, receiving a small paper parcel from his grandson. "To think the wean mindit me!" he murmured to himself. He patted Macgregor on the head and removed the paper.
"It's an awfu' nice kin' o' pipe, granpaw," said Macgregor. "Ye pit watter intilt, an' then ye blaw, an' it whustles like a birdie!"
Mr. Purdie fairly gaped at the instrument of torture in his hand. For a moment he seemed to be stunned. Then he exclaimed, "It bates a'!" and went into a fit of chuckling, which was only stopped by the advent of a "hoast"
"Dae ye like it, granpaw?" asked Macgregor.
"Fine, laddie, fine!" said Mr. Purdie, when he had recovered his breath. "Dod, ye' re paw'll ha'e a guid lauch when he sees ma new pipe. Ye'll ha'e to learn me to play on 't, though."
"Ay, I'll learn ye," said Macgregor, graciously, and he looked much gratified at the prospect.
"Can ye see the boat comin'?" inquired the old man, a little later.
"Ay. It's comin' frae the licht-hoose."
"Weel, it 'll no' be in fur a wee yet. We'll jist tak' a sate on the pier."
"Ay, granpaw... I'm gey dry."
"Tits! I near forgot yer leemonade. But we'll shin pit that richt, Macgreegor."