Wee Macgreegor/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
"I dinna think I'll gang oot the day, John," said Lizzie. "Wee Jeannie's that girny. I doot I'll ha'e to gi'e her ile, puir doo. Ye sudna ha'e gi'ed her thon bit kipper last nicht."
"Och, Lizzie, it was jist a tate the size o' yer nail."
"Weel, ye ken fine she's ower wee fur kippers, John. An' ye ken I wudna gi'e her that kin' o' meat masel'. I'm shair ye micht ha'e mair sense nor to gi'e her everythin' she cries fur. But it canna be helpit noo."
"I'm rale vexed, wumman," said John. "I think I'll bide in the hoose. I'm no' heedin' aboot gaun oot the day."
"Na, na, John. Ye've got to tak' Macgreegor to the baun', fur ye promised the wean."
"Tak' Macgreegor yersel', 'Lizzie, an' I'll mind wee Jeannie."
"Toots, havers! Ye see I'm no' jist shair if it wis the kipper that done it, sae ye needna be blamin' yersel' aboot wee Jeannie."
"Dae ye think it wisna the kipper?" said John, eagerly.
"Maybe it wisna. Onywey, I ken whit to dae; sae aff ye gang wi' Macgreegor.... Macgreegor, ha'e ye washed yer face?"
"Ay, maw."
"Weel, bring ower the brush till I pit yer hair stracht.... Staun' quate noo! Tits, laddie! hoo can I mak' a shed when ye' re wagglin' yer heid?... There, noo!... Let me see yer haun's. Did ye wash them?"
"Ay, maw."
"Awa' an' wash them again. An' tie yer lace.... Here, John, keep yer e'e on wee Jeannie till I get Macgreegor's new hat." Lizzie dived under the bed, opened a box, and brought out a parcel.
"Whit kin' o' bunnet's that?" inquired her husband.
"Wait an' ye'll see," returned Lizzie, smiling as she undid the paper. "The man said it wis an Alpine hat, an' vera genteel. Macgreegor's needin' a new hat His glengarry's gettin' kin' o' shabby fur the Sawbath, sae he'll wear it every day an' ha'e this yin fur his guid yin. See? There's the hat, John. It 'll be a fine surprise fur Macgreegor.... Here, Macgreegor, come an' see yer new hat."
"It's a queer kin' o' hat fur a wean," remarked John. "It's liker a man's. Dod, it's jist like auld Mackinky's—him that used to write til the newspapers efter he gaed daft. A Macalpine hat, did ye say? Macgreegor, let's see ye in yer Macalpine hat!"
But Macgregor, who had been gazing dumbly at the headgear for fully half a minute, suddenly exclaimed, "I'll no' wear that thing."
"Noo ye've done it!" said Lizzie, in a sharp undertone to her husband. "Ye've pit the wean aff it wi' yer stupid talk.... Macgreegor, ma mannie," she said to the boy, "yer paw wis jist jokin'. See, pit on yer braw new hat, an' then ye'll gang to the baun'."
"I'll no' wear it," said her son, retreating a step. "I want ma greengarry bunnet."
"Ah, but this yin's faur nicer nor yer glengarry.... Is 't no'?" she demanded of John, giving him a warning glance.
"Aw, it's a vera nice hat," he replied, evasively. Then, feeling that he was failing in his duty, he gently recommended his son to submit. "Come awa', Macgreegor, an' dae whit yer maw bids ye."
"I'll no' wear it," said Macgregor, stolidly.
"Ye'll no', wull ye no'?" exclaimed Lizzie. "If ye'll no', ye'll jist!" And, taking the boy by the arm, she gently but firmly placed the hat upon his head.
At this indignity tears sprang to his eyes; but he cuffed them away, and stood before his parents an exceedingly sulky little figure.
"It's the brawest hat he ever had," said Lizzie, regarding her purchase with intense satisfaction. "Is 't no', John?"
"Ay; it's a vera braw hat," replied John, with feeble enthusiasm. "Dae ye think it fits him, though?" he inquired.
"Fits him? Deed, ay! It's like as if his heid had been made fur 't.... Is it no' rale comfortable, Macgreegor?"
"I dinna like it," replied the boy. "I like ma greengarry."
"Och, ye'll shin get to like it, dearie. Ye micht gang to see the king wi' a hat like that on yer heid.... Noo, awa' wi' yer paw to the baun', an' be a guid laddie, an' ye'll get somethin' nice to yer tea."
"Come on, Macgreegor," said John, holding out his hand. "You an' me 'll ha'e a hurl on the caur, an' maybe ye'll fin' oot whit I've got in ma pooch."
Lizzie nodded pleasantly as they departed, and John looked back and smiled, while Macgregor, though subdued, was apparently becoming reconciled to his novel headgear. During the car journey the twain were perhaps quieter than usual, but by the time they reached the park, where the band was playing, John had ceased casting covert glances at his boy's head, and Macgregor, with a portion of "taiblet" in each cheek, was himself again.
Macgregor greatly enjoyed the loud and lively passages in the music, but he was inclined to be rather impatient while the conductor waved his baton slowly and the instruments played softly or were partly silent.
"Paw, whit wey is thon man no' blawin' his trumpet?" he inquired, during a lull among the brasses.
"I cudna say, Macgreegor."
"If I had a trumpet I wud aye blaw it. I wud blaw it hard, tae!"
John was about to assure his son that he fully believed him, when he heard some one behind say:
"Jist luk at that, Mrs. Forgie! Is that no' an awfu' daft-like hat to pit on a laddie?"
"It is that, Mrs. Bawr. I wudna let a laddie o' mine's gang oot in a thing like that fur a' the gold o' Crusoes."
John's ears tingled, and he nearly bit the end off his pipe. "Macgreegor, I think we'll gang roon and see the drummer," he said.
"Naw, I want to see thon man blaw his trumpet," said Macgregor, who, fortunately, had not heard his critics.
"Some folk," observed Mrs. Bawr, "is gey fond o' tryin' to be gentry."
"Ye're richt there," assented Mrs. Forgie, with a sniff. "I'm aye sorry fur weans that gets drest up like waux-works, jist fur to please their sully faythers an' mithers."
"Macgreegor," said John, "I'm no' gaun to wait fur the man to blaw his trumpet. I doot he jist cairries it fur show. Come awa' wi' me." And, much to his surprise, the youngster was dragged away.
From that moment John's pleasure was at an end. Every smile he observed, every laugh he heard, seemed to have a personal application. Before the band performance was finished he and his son were on their way home, himself in mortal terror lest the boy should suffer insult. His worst fears were soon realized.
On the roof of the car Macgregor was chattering gayly when an intoxicated party inquired, with a leer, if he were aware that his hat was bashed. Macgregor shrunk close to his father, whose wrath all but boiled over, and was very subdued for the rest of the journey.
As they walked along the street they were met by two small boys, who grinned at their approach, and laughed loudly behind their backs. John gripped the little fingers a thought closer, but held his peace.
Presently a juvenile voice behind them yelled, "Wha dee'd an' left ye the bunnet?" And another exclaimed, "Gentry pup!"
"Never heed, Macgreegor," whispered John.
"I—I'm no' heedin', paw," said the boy, tremulously.
Three little girls passed them, and broke into a combined fit of giggling. One cried "Granpaw!" after them, and the trio ran up a close.
But they were nearly home now, and surely the torment was at an end. But no! At the corner of the street appeared Willie Thomson and several other of Macgregor's playmates. They did not mean to be unkind, but at the sight of their little friend they stared for a moment, and then fled sniggering. And from a window above came a jeering hail, "Haw, you wi' the fancy hat!" followed by the impertinent exhortation, "Come oot the bunnet an' let's see yer feet." Finally, as they hurried into the familiar entry, a shout came after them, in which the word "gentry" was cruelly distinct. Climbing the stairs, John wiped the perspiration of shame and wrath from his forehead, while his son emitted strange, half-choked sounds.
"Never heed, Macgreegor, never heed," whispered John, patting the heaving shoulders. "Ye'll no' wear it again, if I've to buy ye a dizzen bunnets."
They entered the house.
"Ye're early back," said Lizzie, cheerfully.
"Ay, we're early back," said her husband, in a voice she was not familiar with.
"Mercy me! Whit's a-do?" she cried. "Whit ails ye, Macgreegor?"
For a moment there was dead silence. Then Macgregor dashed his new hat on the floor. "I'll no' wear it! I'll no' wear it! I winna be gentry! I winna be gentry!" he moaned, and rushed from the house, sobbing as if his heart would break.
"De'il tak' the hat!" said John, and, lifting his foot, he kicked it across the kitchen, over the jaw-box, and out at the open window.
Lizzie stared at her husband in consternation, and wee Jeannie, not knowing what else to do, started screaming at the top of her voice.
"Ha'e ye gaed daft, John?" gasped Lizzie, at last.
"Gey near it," he replied. "See, Lizzie," he continued, "that hat's to be left in the street, an' yer no' to say a word aboot it to Macgreegor. Listen!" And he proceeded to supply her with details.
"But it's a bewtiful hat, an' that genteel, an' I peyed" she began ere he had finished.
"I'm no' carin' whit ye peyed fur 't. I'd shinner lose a week's pey nor see Macgreegor in anither Macalpine hat, or whitever ye ca' it.... Aw, Lizzie, if ye had jist seed the wey the puir laddie tried fur to keep frae greetin' when they wis makin' amock o' him, ye wud"
"Here, John, haud wee Jeannie," said Lizzie, abruptly. "I maun see whit's come ower him..... Dinna greet, duckie. See if ye can keep her quate, John."
Lizzie was absent for a few minutes, and returned looking miserable. "I canna see him, John. Ye micht gang doon yersel'. He's maybe hidin' frae me," she said, with a sigh.
"Nae fear o' that, dearie. But he disna like folk to see him greetin'. That's why I didna rin efter him at first. But I'll awa' an' see if I can get him noo. An'—an', Lizzie, ye'll no' say onythin' aboot the hat? I'll bring it up, if ye want to keep it."
"Na. I'll no' say onythin', but it's a rale braw hat, an' that genteel, an' I doot somebody's rin aff wi' 't."
Just then Macgregor walked in, looking rather ashamed of himself, and with the tears scarcely dry. Yet, at the tenderly solicitous expressions of his parents, he smiled as if he had been waiting permission to do so.
"Paw, there's a"
"Gi'e yer maw a kiss," said John.
"Ye're an awfu' laddie," murmured Lizzie, cuddling him.
"Paw, there's a wee"
"Wud ye like a curran'-cake to yer tea, MacGreegor?" inquired Lizzie, as she released him.
"Ay, maw," he answered, beaming. Then: "Paw, there's a wee dug ootbye, an' it's worryin' ma hat, an' it's pu'in' it a' to bits!"