'He's aff his onion,' said Macgregor, disgustedly.

'He says I'm a leear,' said Willie, sullenly. Jake's humorous
mouth went straight, not without apparent effort.

'Weel,' he said slowly, judicially, 'it's maybe a peety to fecht
aboot a trifle like that, an' we canna permit kickin', clawin' an'
bitin' in this genteel estayblishment; but seein' it's a dull
evenin', an' jist for to help for to pass the time, I'll len' ye ma
auld boxin' gloves, an' ye can bash awa' till ye're wearit. Sam!'
he called over his shoulder, 'fetch the gloves, an' I'll see fair
play. . . . I suppose. Grocer, ye dinna want to apologeeze.'

Macgregor's reply was to loosen his tunic. He was annoyed with
himself and irritated by Willie, but above all he resented the
publicity of the affair.

With mock solemnity Jake turned to Willie. 'In case o' yer
decease, wud ye no like to leave a lovin' message for the aunt
we've heard ye blessin' noo an' then?'

'To pot wi' her!' muttered Willie.

A high falsetto voice from the gathering' audience cried: 'Oh, ye
bad boy, come here till I skelp ye!'--and there was a general
laugh, in which the hapless object did not join.

'Ach, dinna torment him,' Macgregor said impulsively.