The postcard was received by Macgregor after an uneasy night and a
shameful awakening. The meagre message made him more miserable
than angry. In the circumstances it was, he felt bound to admit,
as much as he deserved. Mercifully, Willie had such a 'rotten
head' that he was unable to plague his unhappy friend, and the day
turned out to be a particularly busy one for the battalion. Next
morning brought the letter. Macgregor was furious, until
Conscience asked him what he had to complain about.

Willie, his mischievous self again, got in a nasty one by inquiring
how much he had paid for the cab the night before last.

'Ye dirty spy!' cried Macgregor. 'What for did ye hook it in the
pictur' hoose an' leave her wi' me? She was _your_ affair.'

'I never asked her to spend the evening',' Willie retorted,
truthfully enough, 'Twa's comp'ny.'

Macgregor felt his face growing hot. With an effort he said
coldly: 'If ye had stopped wi' us ye wudna ha'e been back at the
beer an' broke yer pledge.'

'Wha tell't ye I was at the beer?'

'Yer breath, ye eediot!'

'Ho! so ye was pretendin' ye was sleepin' when I spoke to ye!
Cooard to smell a man's breath wi' yer eyes shut!'

Macgregor turned wearily away. 'It's nae odds to me what ye