'Done! If ye win, we'll be quits; if ye loss----'

'Na, na! If I win, ye'll ha'e to pay me----'

'Ach, I've nae time to listen to ye. I've twa letters to write.'

'Letters! What aboot the bet?'

'Awa' an' chase yersel'! Are ye no gaun to drap a line to yer aunt?'

'No dashed likely! She's never sent the postal order I asked her
for. If I had got it, I wud ha'e payed what I'm owin' ye,
Macgreegor. By heavens, I wud! I'll tak' ma oath I----'

'Aweel, never heed aboot that,' Macgregor said, soothingly. 'Send
her a post caird an' let me get peace for three meenutes.'

'Ye canna get peace in this,' said Willie, with a glance round the
tumultuous billet.

'I can--if ye haud yer silly tongue.' Macgregor thereupon got his
pad and envelopes (a gift from Miss Tod), squatted on his bed, and
proceeded to gnaw his pencil. The voice of the sergeant was heard
ordering the men to hurry up.

'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' said Willie, sitting down at his
friend's elbow. 'I'll bet ye a' I owe ye to a bob it's Flanders.
Ye see, I'll maybe get shot, an' I dinna want to dee in debt. An'
I'll send the auld cat a caird wi' something nice on it, to please
ye . . . . Eh?'